


When Doves Cry

by HooksLovelySwan (ChainOfPaperClips)



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Captain Swan - Freeform, F/M, Once Upon A Time, emma swan - Freeform, killian jones - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-09
Updated: 2017-05-07
Packaged: 2018-02-08 03:04:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 16
Words: 81,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1924362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChainOfPaperClips/pseuds/HooksLovelySwan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She loved him as an adolescent, he admired her from afar; each thought their difference in station an insurmountable obstacle. Years later, Princess Emma and Lt. Killian Jones enter into a marriage of convenience, having long ago given up on obtaining the other's love. Can they overcome tragedy and re-discover each other again? Rated M for sex, mature themes, triggers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This fic is for msgenevieve447, for my Captain Swan Secret Shipmates gift. It was supposed to be a oneshot Lieutenant Duckling fic, but it took a somewhat darker turn at the beginning, and I knew I could never do this fic or the themes associated justice with a oneshot, so I turned it into a multichapter. 
> 
> I consider this to be a Lieutenant Duckling fic with a spritz of Captain Swan, meaning that while this story will firmly remain LD, it has a definite flavor of Captain Swan mixed into it--in part because of its darker themes, and also because it's my headcanon that even as Lieutenant Jones, Killian had a flirtatious and snarky sort of personality...it was just less pronounced.  
> Anyhoo...the first few chapters shouldn't be too bad. I'm mostly hinting at what's going on, but I will post warnings in later chapters if I think something might be a potential readers, so they can skip over it or abandon ship. ;) Hope you enjoy this fic!

It took all of the discipline learned in Lieutenant Killian Jones's naval training not to pace back and forth. Such a display would be gauche, extremely bad form. But his nerves had to have _some_ outlet, so he reached up to tug at the starched collar of his best naval uniform. Sometime in the last several minutes, it had become hot in the cathedral. Extremely hot. Never mind that it was the middle of December...

"Stop that," his older brother hissed over Killian's shoulder. "Everything's fine. It's just a small delay."

Killian suppressed a snort. Small delay? He wasn't a fool. Under the circumstances, that "small delay" could mean anything--and none of it good. Had Emma decided to back out? Her parents...well, everyone, really...would understand if she did. Killian knew the monarchs underestimated how beloved Princess Emma was by her people. If she chose not to marry Killian, a mere naval officer with no wealth or title, everyone would understand. Even _he_ would understand (though it would make things awkward for himself and his career for some time to come). She was a _princess_. It wasn't as if she owed him anything after all. Certainly not her hand in marriage, if she'd changed her mind.

Liam poked him in the side. "Smile," he insisted. "You look like you're attending a state funeral, for gods' sakes!"

Funeral? Killian snorted softly, which earned him a disapproving frown from his curly-haired brother (though Killian noted that his disapproval didn't quite meet his eyes). Well, perhaps that analogy wasn't so far from the truth in some respects. Certainly the event would better resemble one when word came for Killian that the princess had called the whole thing off.

Liam poked him again.

"Stop that!" Killian hissed testily. "I thought groomsmen were supposed to be supportive, not irritating."

"Oh? So you'd rather not know the doors have opened, and your bride is ready?" Liam said archly. "Guess you'll have to find yourself a new best man, if I irritate you with such news."

Killian's head jerked up, and he risked a glance toward the back of the cathedral--protocol and good form be damned. Sure enough, the doors to the vestibule of the cathedral had been propped wide open. Emma was nowhere in sight, of course; no doubt she was tucked off to the side somewhere, hidden from his view until she walked down the aisle. Two small girls with wavy dark hair, wearing dresses that could perhaps be called pink if he squinted, but more resembled the hue of champagne, stood at the ready, baskets clutched in their hands. Killian tried to remember their names (they were about to be related, after all), but they escaped him. All he really knew was that they were cousins of some sort.

Behind the girls, he saw the red hair and infectious smile of the first in a string of bridesmaids. From what little he recalled of the meetings in which they had planned his and Emma's wedding, there were six of them. Seven, if you counted Emma's maiden of honor. Most of them were princesses from allied kingdoms, he remembered, chosen out of courtesy as much as the necessity of witness. But Emma's maiden of honor, at least, was truly her friend, and for that he was glad.

The music began, and Killian drew himself up to his full height, resuming the bearing proper to a military officer. Emma's smallest attendants walked down the aisle, strewing wildflowers in their wake. Their guests smiled and murmured, completely captivated by this display, and even Killian had to admit to himself that they were adorable.

The bridesmaids followed next, one by one, until only Alice remained, her wide smile aimed right at Killian. She winked at him once as she passed by, turning to take her place on the altar steps. Killian blinked, glancing around nervously. What was she on about?

The music changed before he had time to examine the oddity further, and Killian turned toward the back of the cathedral, his mouth dry. Emma stood for a moment, framed by the arched doorway, to allow their guests to look their fill upon her. Killian didn't mind. It allowed him the same opportunity.

Her gown's skirt was full, the very whiteness of it emphasized by the glittering array of rubies and emeralds that adorned it. Gold embroidery criss-crossed the fitted bodice that allowed Killian a peek, no more than that, of his bride's bosom. He felt his ears begin to burn, and he shifted his gaze to admire the long, flowing sleeves of the gown instead; he felt embarrassed and a bit ashamed to stare at the princess in such a common fashion.

Emma started her journey up the long cathedral aisle, and Killian reached up to tug his collar again, quite forgetting himself for a moment. Her steps were measured, her movements graceful, and Killian felt as if he were in a dream as she swept up the aisle toward him. Her golden hair was piled atop her head, loose ringlets falling onto her neck and shoulders underneath the filmy, jewel-covered veil. Long, graceful fingers cradled a bouquet of pink and white roses, a combination he was certain had been chosen by her mother. Emma's taste had _never_ run to dainty colors, much less pink. Red was more her style, or black. But they weren't exactly common wedding colors. Certainly not ones of which Queen Snow ever would have approved.

The princess paused at the end of the aisle, turning toward Killian. He inhaled deeply. With trembling fingers, he folded back her veil and looked at his bride. Her expression was demure, but there was a familiar fire in her green eyes. He smiled at that. Same old Emma. Killian offered the princess his arm. She accepted it without expression, and they approached the altar together.

He stole a glance at her as they knelt before the priest on the altar steps. Though her eyes were focused on the priest, her attention supposedly captivated by his words, Killian knew better. Years of attending state meetings with her had taught him what it felt like when her attention wandered. What was she thinking of? Killian turned his gaze back to priest, giving Emma's hand a light squeeze.  He promised himself that he would do everything in his power to make her happy, to give her a happy ending.

She deserved no less.


	2. Chapter Two

Emma waited in the spacious bridal chamber, fidgeting as she sat on the bed waiting for her groom to arrive. The maids had vacated the room some time ago, their preparations to Emma's hair and attire finished. Bereft of familiar company, Emma paced the room at first, but that had only tempted her to climb out of the window. A foolish notion, both since it was several stories to even reach the ground, and she'd likely break her neck and die, and also because she would hate to repay Lieutenant Jones's kindness with the embarrassment of a scandal. For that much she did know about the Lieutenant: he was kind. And loyal. She had noticed it years ago, when she had been but a girl of fourteen, and the much older navy officer and his brother had attended their first meeting with her parents. Courteous and respectful, Lieutenant Jones had treated even the servants as his equals, not disdaining  eye contact with them, or gratitude for their services. It was something she had only ever observed in her parents. But even more than that, he'd been kind to _her_. For the first time in her life, Emma hadn't been invisible or seen as an appendage to her parents. She'd been treated as a person in her own right.

She'd fallen a little in love with him after that. Hadn't been able to help it. But she'd known, always known, that she couldn't have him. Princesses just didn't marry naval officers, and that was that.

Plus, he'd never noticed her in the way she wanted, anyway.

But at twenty-one, the same age Lieutenant Jones had been when she met him, Emma knew that dreams didn't often come true for people, no matter what her idealistic parents tried to impress upon her. Not everyone attained True Love as they, or Aunt Ruby, had. Sometimes dreams changed. Sometimes the people you loved betrayed you in the worst possible way. And sometimes life had a twisted enough sense of humor  to give you exactly what you had wished for, for years...exactly when you no longer wanted it.

The door to the chamber opened, and Emma leapt to her feet, nerves finally getting the better of her after such a long day. Lieutenant Jones poked his head through the doorway, peering around uncertainly. "Princess," he greeted her when their gazes met. "Permission to enter?"

She laughed. It was a strange feeling, considering the gravity of their situation. But for the moment, it helped. "You're the groom," she pointed out with a smile. "I hardly think you need permission to enter your own bridal suite."

He grinned at her, his features all the more devastating in their handsomeness for it. Emma swallowed thickly, every inch the lovesick fourteen year old for one brief moment. Lieutenant Jones entered the room, shutting the door behind him with a soft click. She blinked, coming back to her senses.

"Sorry," he apologized, "old habits die hard. Years of training and all that."

She nodded. "Understandable," she replied, feeling awkward under his gaze. What a sight she must present, Emma thought as blue eyes studied her. She wondered now if she should have listened to the urgings of her maids and done something more with her hair, worn a fancier nightgown. Emma hadn't wanted to pretend this was something more than it was; hadn't wanted to risk getting caught up in a fantasy that would only shatter under the harsh, cold light of reality. So, she'd insisted her maids plait her hair as usual, and forced them to fetch one of her many plain white nightgowns from her old rooms.

But she realized, absorbing the regretful look on Lieutenant Jones's face, perhaps she should have taken her new husband's feelings into consideration. Certainly he deserved one night of fantasy, at least. One night when they upheld the pretense that this was a normal wedding night between lovers that actually wanted each other. Tomorrow they would begin their honeymoon proper. Emma didn't have it in her to pretend for three whole weeks, but perhaps just for tonight she could gather the courage, set aside her own problems, and just give herself to her husband. It was selfish not to, wasn't it? And didn't he have the right to demand it anyway, as her spouse? To take her whether it pleased her or not?

Emma went cold at the thought. She sat down on the edge of the bed again.

"Something troubling you, Princess?"

Emma looked up. Blue eyes watched her with concern. He wouldn't do it. He was kind, she reminded herself.  Wasn't he? She had never known him, not really.  And a young girl's crush covered many sins and defects, if she refused to see them. Lieutenant Jones could be anyone. Might be anything.

"Something is troubling you," he concluded with a frown. He walked over and sat down beside her on the bed. Emma flinched at his nearness. Sweat broke out on her forehead, and she forced herself to breathe evenly to calm her heartbeat. The Lieutenant edged away, putting more space between them. Clearly, he'd noticed her reaction.

"Care to unburden yourself?" he asked, after sitting in silence beside her for a time.

She didn't, not really. Even if his kindness wasn't a facade, Emma couldn't bring herself to open up to him. He was practically a stranger to her, fourteen-year-old fantasies be damned. And she had learned the hard way what a mistake it was to open up to people. It wasn't a lesson she was willing to repeat. Letting anyone in, even, no, _especially_ her husband, was out of the question.

"I'm fine."

"You're not," he snorted. "You're afraid to talk, to reveal yourself. To trust me."

"Oh, so after being married to me for the space of what, ten hours, you think you know me?" she replied caustically.

"No," he said without a hint of rancor, "but I've observed you for seven years, serving my queen. You're something of an open book."

"Am I?"

"To one who knows how to properly translate, yes."

"And you think that's you?" she said skeptically. "Please. Neither of us know one damned real thing about each other."

His expression became closed off. "As you say, Your Highness,"  he said in a much more distant tone. He stood up, making his way over to the bottle of wine the servants had set out. He poured a glass of the ruby liquid and took a long drink from it.

"Don't call me that," she bit out angrily. He glanced at her over his wine glass, eyebrow arched. "See?" she couldn't help but gloat, "if you knew anything about me at all, you would know that I hate being "your highness"-ed and "princess"-ed all the time."

He smiled, but there was little warmth in it. "Oh, but I'm quite aware of that, actually. As I said, love, open book." He lifted his glass to her in sarcastic tribute, took another drink, and wandered out onto the balcony.

Irritated, Emma followed him.

The evening was still and quiet, bereft of the noise from insects long since dead or driven away for the colder months. Stars shone across the sky like pearls scattered across fine, navy satin. Emma might have appreciated the sight on some other night, there were too many things detracting her full attention from them. Such as the man leaning against the balcony in front of her. The tail of his queued hair blew in the breeze that rippled across the balcony. He'd shucked his blue, formal jacket off, tossing it over the back of a chair. It made the ripple of his shoulder muscles much more apparent as he shifted restlessly.

"Sure you should be out in this chill air?" he asked without so much as turning to glance toward her when she walked out onto the balcony.

"I'm fine," she said dismissively. "It's stuffy inside, anyway."

He did turn toward her then, giving her an incredulous look. "It's the middle of December!"

"Really, I'm fine," she assured him.

He rolled his eyes. It was a mannerism that surprised her. It seemed very unlike the stiff, proper officer she was familiar with. Then again, as she'd pointed out to him, they hardly knew each other.

Warmth enveloped her as he settled his abandoned jacket around her shoulders. "If you insist on being stubborn," he murmured before turning away.

Emma's temper died a bit. She shuffled over to join him where he stood, leaning with one hip against the balcony. He arched a brow at her, but made no move to shift aside so she had more room. Emma ground her teeth together. She had no choice but to stand uncomfortably close to him.

He smirked at her over his wine glass, as if he read could her thoughts every bit as well as he'd claimed. Emma glared at him in return. The silence stretched between them for several moments, and Emma thought the terribly proper military officer would be welcome over _this_ smug bastard.

"Are you thirsty? Hungry?" he asked suddenly. "I could send for something."

"A little hungry," she admitted, embarrassed. She couldn't remember when she had eaten last. Sometime during the long reception, but even if it had been right before her early leave (and it hadn't), that would have been hours ago.

He frowned. "You shouldn't starve yourself, love," he said quietly.

"Don't call me that," she snapped.  Emma couldn't stand it. To hear that word fall from his lips tonight, of all nights, as if it _meant_ something--

"Force of habit," he told her stiffly, the proper military officer returning. "My apologies." He downed the last of his wine. "I'll send for food. Anything particular you desire?"

"Just call me Emma, all right?" she told him as he turned away to leave the balcony.

He peered at her over his shoulder. "I meant the food."

"I know."

He stared at her for a moment, his face expressionless, then disappeared into the bridal suite. Emma sighed. She was making a terrible mess of things. The on-and-off-again friction wasn't at all what she had pictured on her wedding night as a young girl. At least not the antagonistic sort of friction, she admitted to herself wryly. But Emma wasn't certain she could give Lieutenant Jones the type of wedding night she'd always imagined. The sort he had no doubt anticipated.

Emma sighed again and exited the balcony, determined to salvage the evening and at least make peace with her new husband. Her problems weren't his fault. He shouldn't have to bear the brunt of her confused emotions.

"I took the liberty of requesting a variety of foods," he informed her when she entered the room again, "since I didn't know what you wanted."

"Thank you, Lieutenant." She started to sit down on the bed, then remembered that she still wore his jacket. Emma removed it, folding it neatly so it wouldn't wrinkle. She held it out to him. He shook his head, waving it away. Emma placed it on top of a dressing table.

"You know," he said, loosening his cravat, "if I'm to call you Emma, you might try using my given name, too."

She felt herself flush. Emma had wanted to do nothing more than that for practically six years. She used to fantasize about it. Usually in tandem with her wedding night. But she'd abandoned those fantasies with the last remnants of her childhood, and then, about a year ago, when Neal had come along, fantasies of the unattainable Lieutenant Jones had been replaced by the handsome heir to Count Goldberg. Her parents might consider a match between them, despite his lower rank. And he, unlike the Lieutenant, returned her affection.

What a fool she'd been.

"It feels strange," she told him, "to think of calling you that." _Lie_ , her conscience screamed at her. _Lie, lie, lie!_

"It'll take some getting used to, I grant you," he agreed, removing his vest. Emma watched in horrified fascination. "But we should make an effort, shouldn't we? We are wed now."

"We?" she echoed. He looked up, his expression confused. "You said 'we'." Her eyes narrowed. "That's why you keep calling me 'princess' and 'your highness'," she realized. "It's habit for you, too."

"Aye," he admitted. "But the last time, I simply did it to annoy you."

"Figures," she snorted. He looked at her in amusement. "Look, I'll...try to remember to call you by your given name if you try to call me by mine."

He smiled. "Do you even know my given name?" he asked curiously. "I've yet to hear you say it. I'm beginning to doubt it."

"Of course I know it," she huffed. "I sat through enough boring meetings with you, didn't I? I saw your signature loads of times. And they announced you at all the balls, anyway. I'd have to be blind and deaf not to know it by now."

"Then say it," he challenged. "Straight from those beautiful, royal lips."

Emma rolled her eyes. This idiot switched personalities faster than lightning, it seemed.  "Killian," she muttered.

"Oh, well don't sound so thrilled about it, love," he chuckled.

"What happened to 'Emma'?" she demanded, wincing inwardly at his use of the endearment again.

"Sorry. Emma," he corrected. "I'll be honest with you, Emma. Titles I can eliminate, but certain patterns speech, such as the one I just used, are not going to go away."

So it was ingrained, she reflected. Which meant that it was impersonal. She could live with that. So long as he wasn't actually mocking her or using it as a genuine term of affection.

"All right," she said, "I guess I understand that. I don't want to change who you are."

"Say that to me again after we've been married six or seven years," he teased as a knock sounded on the door. He opened it, and a servant  bearing two large silver trays entered the room, very carefully avoiding looking at Emma. Killian took the trays, setting them on top of desk. He thanked the servant and sent him on his way again.

Lieutenant Jones-- _Killian_ , she reminded herself--lifted the lid off one of the trays, revealing a mouth-watering variety of fruits and cheeses. The other tray turned out to hold bread, ham, and honey. "It's not fancy," he apologized, "but--"

"No, it's fine. I don't want the staff going to any trouble this late in the evening."

He nodded. "Just so."

Emma ambled over to the trays and picked up one of the small plates included with the food. She offered it to the Lieutenant. _Killian_. "Join me?" she invited. He looked at her in surprise. "Don't tell me _you've_ eaten recently, either."

"I haven't," he admitted.

"So?" She waved the plate at him with one hand, jamming a hunk of cheese in her mouth with the other. "You want to eat or what?" she asked, swallowing.

He accepted the plate with a slight smile. "Elegant as always, I see."

"I do so try," she curtsied flippantly.

He grinned, stepping up beside her. "Well, you needn't pretend around me. I know better."

"Do you?" Emma loaded the little plate with food, trying to distract herself from the very masculine presence beside her.

"I do," he affirmed, filling his own plate. "And I much prefer it when you don't." Emma stared at him in surprise. "What? I take it I'm not allowed to compliment my wife now, either?" he asked with a somewhat irritated expression.

"No. I'm...it's just...no one has ever said anything like that to me before."

His expression softened. "What a shame." He moved away before Emma could decide if he was being genuine or not.

They ate in silence, both of them sneaking glances at the other when they thought their companion wasn't looking. Neither of them quite knew how to broach the subject that weighed so heavily on their minds, so they each stewed about it, each worried about how the other might respond when they turned in for the night and confronting it became inevitable.

Emma, for her part, vacillated between putting it off indefinitely, and just getting it over with. She was as equally terrified that she would welcome his attentions, enjoy them far too much, as she was that she would push him away and damage their already fragile relationship further. The reality of her situation was sinking in, and Emma acknowledged to herself that, for good or for ill, she had to live with this man forever. She would much rather be on good terms with him, but that didn't necessarily mean a sexual relationship, did it? Loads of couples in arranged marriages went their own ways after they married, maintaining nothing more than a friendship or passing acquaintance with each other. If that.

On the other hand, they also consummated their marriage and maybe produced an heir or two, first.

Killian took her plate when she'd eaten her fill, stacking them on the empty tray. Between the two of them, all the fruit and cheese had been eaten, leaving only a little of the bread. Emma sipped at a glass of water while Killian moved the trays to the hallway for a servant to retrieve later. She still wasn't certain what she would do or how she would respond when Killian initiated. She was running out of time; it was getting later by the minute, and they needed to get _some_ rest for their trip tomorrow.

Ostensibly, anyway.

Killian shut the door behind him and started across the room, unbuttoning his shirt, a faraway look in his eyes. Emma choked on the water she was swallowing. He looked at her with a puzzled expression for about half a breath before realization dawned in his eyes. "I can change in the next room, if you prefer," he offered quietly. "Though it's a bit redundant now that we're married, don't you think?"

"I--I guess," she stammered. Then, hating how idiotic she sounded, "I mean, you have a point."

"Good." He smiled at her crookedly and finished unbuttoning his shirt. He shucked it off, and Emma thought she might have heard him mutter, "That's something, anyway," but she was entirely too distracted by the sight of his bare chest to pay much attention. Gods above, the man was pure muscle, she realized, feeling her face heat up. He didn't look to have a single ounce of fat on him! And the chest hair, gods, the chest hair!

His muscles corded and bunched as he sat down in a chair at the dressing table and neatly folded his shirt. He laid it aside and started to remove his boots. Seeming to sense her hungry gaze, he looked up. Emma glanced away quickly, embarrassed and more confused than ever.

He said nothing, for which Emma was profoundly grateful, but merely continued his bedtime preparations. A queasy feeling started in the pit of her stomach. Emma clamped her mouth shut and closed her eyes, willing it to go away.

She felt a light touch on her shoulder a few minutes later. She jumped, opening her eyes. Killian towered over her with nothing on but a pair of loose, black trousers woven from a much softer material than the ones she usually saw him wear. Emma blinked stupidly. She hadn't witnessed the switch from one pair of trousers to the other, thank the gods. "You look pale," he said. "Are you all right?"

"It's nothing," she replied. "The food didn't sit well in my stomach, that's all."

He frowned. "My apologies." He watched her with concern. "Perhaps I should let you make the requests in the future."

"It's fine, really," she assured him. "I'm better now. It's just been a long day. Let's go to bed."

The words flew out of her mouth before she could stop them. Flushing to the roots of her hair, she glanced up at him from beneath her lashes. To her surprise, his face was also a little flushed, but his cobalt eyes were filled with compassion. He sat down on the bed next to her. "Emma--" he reached over as if to take her hand, then withdrew as if he'd thought better of it. "We'll just sleep tonight, love. As you said, it's been a long day."

Her mouth fell open a little. "But...I thought...We're married, aren't we?" she floundered. "I thought husbands expected-- I mean, you're a man, aren't you?" she finished, her words sounding harsh, though she hadn't meant for them to.

He winced."If you're asking whether I want a physical component to our marriage, Emma, yes. As you pointed out, I'm a man, and men often tend to want that. But," he said with a little more force, "not all men are willing to take something that isn't freely given."

"You're my husband now. You have rights over my body, as I have over yours. In wedding you, by law, I've already given my free consent. You would only be taking what was rightfully yours."

He gave her a hard look. "I will not take that which isn't freely given, Emma," he told her firmly. "Even as your husband."

"I don't understand," she confessed. "Don't you want to?"

"We've already established that I have desires, being a male with a pulse," he deflected with an attempt at humor. "The better question is what you want."

"I...I don't know."

"Then you're not ready," he said matter-of-factly. "I assumed as much."

"What--what if I never am?" she whispered, voicing her greatest fear. The moment she did, she felt humiliated. She hadn't meant to share anything with him, least of all _that_. But there was something very relaxing about his presence. Comfortable. _Too_ comfortable, she decided, because she felt safe with him. Vulnerable. Emma didn't let herself be vulnerable with anyone. Not anymore.

"Then I suppose I shall have to take up meditation," he winked, offering her a crooked smile. "Not to worry, lass. Sailors can go a long time without."

"Maybe," she said skeptically, "but a whole lifetime?"

His smile faltered. "You don't make this easy, do you, lass?"

"Sorry."

"Stop apologizing. We'll figure this out, Emma. Just not tonight."

"Okay. Sorry."

" _Emma_."

She opened her mouth to apologize, then snapped it shut. "Fine." He smirked at her.

"Let's retire then, shall we, love? You need your rest." He stood up, reaching for one of the pillows.

"What are you doing?"

"Well, the floor is rather uncomfortable without it, love."

"You don't have to sleep on the floor."

He eyed her skeptically. "Emma, you flinch or move away every time I so much as sit by you. I rather assumed sharing a bed would be rushing it a bit."

"Sorry," she blurted out miserably. "I--I can't help it."

"Emma! Stop. Apologizing. You've done nothing wrong."

"All right." She swallowed. "I'm sor-- I mean...you're right, we should get some sleep."

He nodded shortly, gathering up another pillow.

"Killian?"

"Hmm?"

"You really don't have to sleep on the floor. I'll feel bad if you do."

He quirked a smile at her. "In that case, we'll give it a go, if it'll ease your conscience. Can't have you awake all night. You really do need some rest. We have a long journey tomorrow."

Emma folded back the covers and didn't respond. Killian took his cue from her and made a circuit around the room while Emma settled into the bed, blowing out the lamps. He padded back toward the bed, pausing briefly to blow out the bedside lamp. The room plummeted into darkness. The bed creaked slightly, dipping momentarily as he climbed in. Emma tensed up, breathing hard. Killian maintained a respectful distance, however, and after a few minutes she began to relax.

"You all right?" he asked softly.

"I will be," she managed. "I'm...it's better than it was a few minutes ago."

"But you'll tell me if you're not?"

"Yes." She doubted she would be able to help it.

"Promise?"

She expelled a breath. "Yes. I promise."

"Good night, then, Emma," he replied after a short silence. "Sleep well, love."

But Emma didn't sleep. Not at all. Not until long after Killian had stilled and his breathing became deep and even. Only then did she fully relax and let herself fall into a deep and much-needed sleep.


	3. Chapter Three

If there was one thing that a long carriage ride was good for, Killian thought, gazing out of the window at the drab, winter countryside that rolled past, it was thinking. And he certainly had a lot to think over, after last night. His first night wedded to Emma had both gone exactly and yet quite unlike his expectations. They had taken so many steps forward, then lurched back quite a few more, then edged forward again... It felt a whole lot like their marital relationship so far was of those children's toys with the string that they flung up and down and swung back and forth. But even as tumultuous as it was, it was better than he had hoped for and expected at the beginning. That Emma could even manage moments of lightheartedness with him, much less sleep in the same bed with him so soon after they had wed, was proof of her strength, her resilience.

Killian looked at the seat opposite of him, eyeing his sleeping wife thoughtfully. Blonde hair tumbled over her shoulders in a messy tangle, an appealing contrast to the long-sleeved, high-necked teal-blue gown she wore. She'd refused to wear her hair up today as a proper lady should, even going so far as to fight with her maid about it. Killian, though he was uncertain what the fuss was all about, had listened for a few minutes and then intervened on Emma's behalf. They were going to spend the majority of the day in the carriage, he'd argued, what was the difference how her hair was coiffed? It was easy enough to throw a cloak on and pull up the hood when they stopped to eat or rest the horses. The maid acquiesced, and Emma had beamed at him in gratitude after the servant left, a sight that took his breath away.

It had been his sole victory of the morning.

Emma had immediately withdrawn from him the moment they entered the carriage. That had disappointed Killian at first, but after thinking about it, he'd realized that the closeness of their quarters probably made her uncomfortable. Especially since there was no easy means of escaping his presence unless she wanted a broken limb, or worse. Killian had attempted conversation in the beginning, but his words were met with a cold stare, and eventually he lapsed back into silence.

He'd known this was going to be difficult. Killian hadn't entered the marriage with any illusions; it was every inch a marriage of convenience. And though he wanted to make the best of things, to give her a happiness and peace she didn't seem to believe was possible, much less deserved, the friendship he'd thought possible to develop between them last night was like ashes in his mouth today. Killian tried not to feel disappointed. Emma wouldn't be won in a day, or even a few weeks. It might be years before he won her trust and her friendship, much less anything else.

Emma shifted in her sleep, her mouth drooping open. Killian smiled fondly, amused at the sight. At least her stubborn silence had allowed her to get more rest. The dark circles under her eyes this morning had told the tale of her wakefulness last night, and he wondered just how long she had lain awake after he had fallen asleep. Would she sleep better if he insisted on separate arrangements tonight? Perhaps a different chamber? It wasn't at all uncommon for wedded nobles to have a separate set of apartments from each other. Eric and his wife, Ariel, would hardly bat an eyelash if he made such a request when they arrived. But would Emma agree to it? He knew she could be uncommonly stubborn when it suited her ("Pigheaded," her mother had often accused with a huff. "She gets it from you, you know," her father always replied with a smile). If she was determined to share a bed, there would be little he could to talk her out of it, even if it negatively affected her sleep.

A snorting sound interrupted his thoughts, drawing his attention to his slumbering wife again. Emma scrubbed at her face with one hand, but her eyes remained firmly closed. Killian grinned. He shouldn't take such pleasure in observing her sleeping tics and habits--his surely couldn't be any better--but for all that she looked awkward and inelegant while she slept, she also looked peaceful. It was a sight that he cherished, for all that it had become so rare these days, and Killian harbored the hope that one day he might be able give Emma that sort of peacefulness in the whole of her life, not just her sleep.

The carriage slowed to a stop. Killian glanced out the window. A large, well-to-do inn stood outside, grey smoke rising from its many chimneys. A handful of servants milled about, carrying on with their daily tasks of gathering eggs, chopping firewood, or washing windows. Killian watched them idly, listening with half an ear to the muffled voices of the footman and the driver discussing the length of their stop and the best route to take for the next portion of their journey.

"What's going on?" a sleepy voice asked. "Why are we stopped?"

Killian swung his gaze back to Emma. Her clothes were a little rumpled, her hair in more of a disarray than ever, and her green eyes still heavy with sleep, but Killian thought she looked as beautiful as ever, perhaps all the more so, with the last remnants of her earlier peacefulness clinging to her. Her creamy skin was paler than usual, and Killian wondered if the extra sleep had helped at all, but her demeanor seemed much improved as she studied him with an openly curious expression.

It was an improvement over her cold stares, at any rate.

"Good afternoon," he told her. "Sleep well?"

"Fine, I suppose," she replied slowly, blinking several times in succession, as if she were not yet fully awake, but attempting to be so. "Why are we stopped? Are we there yet?"

He chuckled. "Not even close. We'll arrive at the Westensee kingdom after nightfall. We're stopped right now to give the horses a rest. And to eat, I imagine."

"Ugh." She made a face. "Don't talk to me about food right now."

"The rest didn't help, I gather?"

"Apparently not."

He frowned. "Maybe you'll feel better out in the fresh air. Care to take a walk with me?"

She stared at him with a confused expression. "Yeah, uh...I suppose that would be okay."

Killian rapped on the carriage door to get the footman's attention. "My wife and I would like to take a short walk around the town while our meal is prepared," he informed the footman, who held the carriage door open wider in response. Killian climbed out, snatching up his blue military jacket as he went. The footman held out his hands expectantly. Killian stared at him in consternation.

"He wants to help you put your jacket on," Emma supplied helpfully, watching from inside the carriage. Her own black cloak was spread across her lap in anticipation of their walk.

Killian glanced back at the servant. "That's not necessary," he informed him. "But thank you." He shrugged the coat on, smoothing it out, and waited nearby for his wife. Emma hesitated at the mouth of the carriage, eyeing the footman's proffered hand with trepidation. "You know," he told the servant, "I think my wife will want a fresh gown after her walk. Fetch the trunk and set it out in our lounge room for later."

The footman took his leave to carry out Killian's orders at once.

"Thank you."

"Of course." He hesitated, then held out his own hand. "If you want it," he explained. Surely it couldn't hurt to offer, as was proper? What sort of gentleman would he be if he didn't?

She eyed his hand for several heartbeats, biting her lower lip. Her hand slipped into his. The sudden contact surprised him. He hadn't expected her to accept. Killian tightened his grip just enough to steady her while she climbed out of the carriage, skirts swishing. He let go the moment both feet touched the ground."Would milady like help with her cloak, too, while I'm playing footman?" he asked cheekily.

Emma rolled her eyes and handed him her cloak. He settled it about her shoulders, pulling the hood up, intent on keeping her warm enough, and his eyes raked across her face. Emma was watching him, too, with a spark of something like wistfulness glinting in her eyes before they clouded over and resumed their usual troubled expression. Killian finished tying the hood into place and stepped back. He gestured toward the town surrounding them. "Well? Where would you like to go?"

She looked thoughtful. "A tea shop, if we can find one. It might help settle my stomach if I have some."

"We can go straight to the inn, if you'd rather," he offered. "They can prepare some tea for you."

"No. I want that walk you offered me," she frowned. "I need to stretch my legs after sitting in the carriage for so long."

He offered her his arm. "Lead the way, then," he told her as she curled her hand around him.

They found the tea shop about ten or fifteen minutes later, and Emma's face lit up. Her smiles, rare though they even were these days, often carried a hint of bitterness with them. But the smile that graced her face now, only the second genuine one he'd seen in weeks (and how extraordinary that they had both happened in the same day), was pure joy. Killian treasured the sight of it, tucking the memory away for later, along with her apparent fondness for tea. His time with Emma had been limited to state meetings, balls, or evening dinners, in the past. He had never had the luxury or good fortune to spend time with Emma in a more intimate setting, such as tea time, due to their difference in station.  What other things did she like? What else would he learn about her, now that they were wed?

Emma let go of his arm and wandered a short distance away to browse. Killian watched with a smile. He would happily indulge her every whim, if it brought contentment such as this. The knowledge that such contentment was but fleeting, however, dampened his spirits somewhat, until one of the shopkeeper's assistants approached him.

"Can I help you?" a female voice said.

Killian looked to his right. A woman of diminutive stature stood next to him, thickly curled hair spilling over her shoulders. Warm brown eyes and a friendly smile gave her coffee-with-cream skin a glow that reminded him of the way that Emma had looked at him this morning. Killian opened his mouth to politely dismiss her, then thought better of it. "Yes, actually," he told the woman. "I'm to be a guest at someone's residence for a few weeks, and I'd like to take my hosts a gift, though I'm not quite sure what they would like."

"Oh!" She clapped her hands together. "I may have just the thing. Follow me," she said with another smile, this one with a hint of coyness, crooking her finger at him. Killian followed the assistant, brushing past Emma, who was examining a tea set with a pensive expression. She glanced up as he passed, but returned to her browsing without a word.

"Here we are," the woman said, laying her hand on his arm to steer him toward a display. Blue-and-white striped paper bags lined the shelves. She pulled one off the shelf and opened it, holding it out toward him. "Go on, take it," she invited. "Smell it."

Killian took the bag from her, steadfastly ignoring the way her eyelashes fluttered as his hand brushed hers mistakenly. He peered into the bag at the loose-leaf tea. There seemed to be bits of dried fruit in it. He obliged the shopkeeper's assistant and sniffed the tea. He could identify oranges and cinnamon, but the rest of the ingredients were foreign to his nose. Or well-disguised. "What's in it?" he asked a moment later.

She rattled off a list of ingredients, of which Killian only caught half. "It's imported from Charvés," she explained helpfully. "It's been very popular, here. Quite the fashion. Especially in the city proper."

Killian eyed the tea thoughtfully. Would his hosts have access to this blend as well, being an import?  "Do you have any local blends?" he finally asked. "Something particular here to Kenth?"

"Of course. Her hand skimmed along his arm as she gently led him toward a different area of the shop. Killian shrugged her off with a frown. Her familiar manner was unnerving. Not to mention highly improper and inappropriate.  Could she not see the ring on his left hand, or didn't she care? He glanced nervously toward Emma, but she remained absorbed in her examination of various dainty tea sets. Was she searching for a gift for their hosts as well? Perhaps he ought to go over and consult with her. He had taken a step toward her to do just that when the woman spoke again.

"These are our local teas," she nodded toward the display, "blended right here in this very shop."

Killian leaned forward to examine some of them, scanning labels, and saw the attendant shift closer to him, as if to speak intimately. He selected a tea at random and thrust it at her, clearing his throat. "This one," he told her. "Wrap it up, if you please."

She blinked in surprise. "Oh, of course!" she recovered after a moment. "I'll just take care of this while you keep shopping." She flashed him another smile. "I'll return in just a moment," she promised.

_Please don't_ , Killian thought, somewhat relieved as she walked away toward the front counter, where the shopkeeper stood poring over a purchase registry. If she continued her unwanted attentions despite his subtle rejections, he would be forced to say something to her, and he dreaded the idea. It would surely draw Emma's attention, and although he knew she would not feel jealous in any personal manner, he doubted she would appreciate the slight to her person or station. The sad fact was, what the shopkeeper's assistant was doing could get her in serious trouble, if Emma chose to enforce any of the penalties the law allowed for this situation. He had only just gotten married, for gods' sakes, and the situation he faced with Emma was complicated enough without borrowing additional trouble.

Killian gave himself another moment to collect himself and then made his way over to the tea sets, where he had last seen Emma. When he drew nearer, he realized she was no longer crouched among the displays, but had drifted further down, toward the teas. Smiling to himself, he placed his hands in his trouser pockets and shifted course just a little. A tea set caught his eye as he passed through the aisle, however, and he paused to examine it. Bold strokes of black stood out against the glazed white porcelain of a teapot, complemented by tiny, feather-like strokes of re, forming the likeness of a cherry tree in bloom. He fingered the delicate cups that accompanied the teapot; they bore a similar, if somewhat smaller design, each tree unique to itself, which told Killian that they had been hand-painted by an actual artist.

He glanced toward Emma. It seemed the sort of thing she might like, but he couldn't be certain how she would receive such a gift from him, given her shifting moods. Was it too soon to gift her with something like this? Tradition, Snow and Charming had informed him a short time before the wedding, dictated that the royal spouses gift each other with a present. Killian had picked out a pair of simple pearl earrings with Snow's help; they were tasteful yet practical, she'd informed him, and something that Emma would appreciate for years to come. But what hadn't been said between Killian and his then future mother-in-law, but which had been clearly understood by them both, was that the earrings were a _safe_ gift.

Killian considered the tea set again. It seemed a much more personal gift to give her than earrings, considering the circumstances. Was she ready for something like that? He doubted it. And yet, he realized, there was the distinct possibility that he would never see a set quite like this again. A set that seemed so very suited to Emma.

"See something you like?" the shopkeeper's assistant inquired, appearing at his side again.

He glanced at his wife again. "I do." Killian turned to the assistant. "Wrap up this set, if you please. And be discreet about it."

"Of course," she agreed with a puzzled smile.

"Excellent. I'll come up front shortly to pay." He turned on his heel and weaved through several more aisles toward Emma, who had returned to examining the tea sets.

"I didn't think your tastes ran toward rosebuds and hummingbirds," he teased as he joined her. "We really _don't_ know each other, do we?"

She cracked a slight smile. "They don't. It's going to be a gift to my mother, to apologize for being such a bear to her during all the wedding planning the past few weeks." She glared over at him. "Don't even say it."

"Wouldn't dream of it, love." He grinned. "By the way, I do have a sweet tooth." He winked at her. "Just for future reference, you understand."

"Were you always this much of a jackass?" she sighed, picking up the card with the description and price of the tea set on it. "You always came off as such a gentleman before." She brushed past him, making a beeline for the front of the shop to make her purchase.

"Hey!" he protested, following at her heels. "I'm always a gentleman."

Emma handed the card to the shopkeeper, who sent his hovering assistant off to fetch the set. "Really?" she arched a brow. "I--" Her mouth snapped shut. Her hand darted out to grip the edge of the counter, knuckles turning white.

"Emma?" Killian asked, his heart skipping a beat. A sickening sensation formed in the pit of his stomach. "What's wrong? Are you all right?" She shook her head. Killian looked up and spotted the assistant who had helped him. "Fetch my wife some water, please."

"Wife?" she echoed confusedly, studying Emma. Her eyes widened in sudden recognition. "Oh, Your Highness!" she gasped. Her eyes darted over to Killian, taking in his military uniform and the ring on his left hand. "Then you must be--Oh, I'm so sorry!"

"Just get the water," he ordered, none too kindly. "Emma, love, I'm going to help you to a chair," he warned in a low tone, drawing close to her. Killian wrapped an arm around her waist. She sagged against him, revealing to him without a word just how much willpower and muscle she must have exerted to stay upright rather than disgrace herself by collapsing.

"Emma," he lecture softly as he guided her toward the chair the shopkeeper had produced from the back store room, "you need to tell me when you're feeling bad."

"I did! The walk helped. I was fine until a minute ago, I swear." She sat down and the assistant reappeared with the water. Killian took it from her and gave it to Emma. "You haven't hardly eaten or drank anything since this morning," he chided, "no wonder you nearly fainted."

"I was asleep in the carriage most of the morning," she argued. "How was I supposed to eat or drink anything? Through my ear?" she finished sarcastically.

"No, but that's beginning to sound like a bloody good idea," he glared, "since you won't take care of yourself." He scrubbed a hand over his face. "Gods, Emma! You gave me a fright!"

"I'm sorry," she said contritely.

"For once," he smiled, "I'm going to accept your apology. Though I believe I owe you one as well. I should have been taking better care of you, lass. I'm sorry."

She opened her mouth as if to argue, then shook her head. "Never mind. I don't want to argue."

"Now I know you're feeling sick," he smile. "Probably delirious. Maybe I should send for a physician." She glared at him and took a long drink from her cup. "That's a good girl," he approved. "Drink every drop of it. I'm going to pay the bill, then we'll return to the inn." He winked at her, knowing it would only annoy her further. "Try not to miss me too much."

She smiled faintly, not at all the sarcastic response he had been expecting.

"Okay."

 


	4. Chapter Four

They arrived at the Westensees' residence two and half days later than originally planned, toward late afternoon. After Emma's near-fainting experience, Killian had insisted on taking a couple days to rest before they returned to traveling, in order to give her time to recover. Emma thought it going a bit overboard, herself, but Killian wasn't swayed from his course of action once he'd settled on it, despite even her best persuasive efforts.

"We'll leave when you're properly recovered," he'd told her, after sending a courier ahead to the Westensees to inform them of their delay.

Emma nestled further into the corner of her carriage seat, remembering the way Killian had disappeared for quite some time, after summoning a maid to help her undress and settle into bed. He arranged for lodgings at the inn, both for themselves and for their footman and coachman. Not to mention securing feed and proper stabling for the horses. But despite the very real tasks he'd needed to take care of, Emma suspected that Killian had used the time away to give her some space. He knew how much she treasured any little time she managed to secure on her own. Princesses weren't often left to their own devices, suffering from an excess of duties, lessons, and social activities.

They'd spoken of it once, Emma remembered suddenly as the carriage rolled through the large Westensee estate, the wood-covered grounds glowing eerily in the orange and gold corona of the setting sun. She had been seventeen, and Killian had discovered her hiding behind a rather large sculpture to the left of the grand staircase, her feet sore and tired from dancing with so many princes, noblemen's sons, and dignitaries. Emma had just wanted to escape to her room, read a chapter or two of her favorite book, maybe just go to bed, but she'd known none of that would be possible for at least two or three more hours.

_"Princess?" the deep, familiar voice inquired, startling her out of her wits. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to give you a fright," the Lieutenant said as she turned to face him._

_"No, it's um, it's all right," she mumbled, mortified that the Lieutenant had caught her hiding from the guests. She smoothed down the skirt of her velvet ball gown, nervous in his presence. Although she much preferred the comfort of leather breeches and a loose tunic, she was nonetheless pleased that Killian was seeing her in the scarlet creation with its sweetheart neckline and beaded crystals sewn to the bodice, gloves covering her arms from fingertips to shoulders. Emma had been hoping to see him all night, dreamed of dancing in his arms; they always shared one dance when he attended their parties on shore leave. One treasured, precious dance. She almost hadn't left the crush in the ballroom because she'd been afraid she would miss him, miss her chance to dance with him, and yet here he was, under entirely different circumstances. Alone with her._

_Emma knew her cheeks must be red, as much from her embarrassment as the effect his accent had on her. Gods, that voice! She bit her lip, an un-princess-like behavior according to her mother, trying to dispel the recurring thoughts of what Lieutenant Jones's voice might sound like when it was thick with arousal._

_"I, uh, I'm just--"_

_"Hiding?" he supplied with a faintly amused smile._

_"Yes," she sighed, "you caught me."_

_"Forgive me if I'm being too forward, Your Highness, but..._ why _are you hiding?"_

_"I'm tired," she admitted. "These balls mother and father throw aren't high on my list of preferred activities."_

_"Such as archery and fencing and horseback riding?" he teased, arching his eyebrows._

_"Just so," she agreed. "_ Here _," she swept her hand toward the ballroom, "there's too much noise, too many people... and if that's not enough, my feet are sore, I'm sick of being polite, and I just want to_ sit _for a while." She shook her head. "But mostly, I need some time to myself,  to soak in the silence."_

_"I see." Their eyes met. Something like empathy shone in his eyes, warming Emma from the inside out. She smiled shyly. Lieutenant Jones smiled back. "I must confess," he admitted softly, "I'm not altogether fond of these events, myself, but it seems neither one of us has much choice in attending."_

_Emma inhaled, wanting to say something further: Thank you. Or, Stay with me. Or--You have the most beautiful blue eyes. Anything to keep their conversation going._

_"Begging your pardon, Highness," he said suddenly, "there's someone I must speak with." He bowed, grazing a kiss across her knuckles that sent a shiver down her spine. "By your leave?" Blue eyes gazed up at her through long, dark lashes, the Lieutenant still bent over her hand._

_"Of course." She withdrew her hand with reluctance. Emma watched him go, with no small amount of regret. She almost never had the opportunity to speak with Lieutenant Jones alone--truly alone, without her parents or state dignitaries or a ballroom full of guests surrounding them. As always, he'd been the perfect, polite gentleman. But in her most secret of fantasies, he was nothing of the sort. When she imagined them together, usually late at night when the palace was dark and still, and most everyone was asleep, Emma fantasized about a Lieutenant Killian Jones whose stiffness of manner and penchant for rules and good form melted away under her caress, who became a charming scoundrel of a pirate in her bed._

_Emma closed her eyes with a breathless sigh. She leaned against the wall, imagining the sort of things he might do to her, the sort of liberties she might gladly let him take, if not for the differences in their station. Heat coursed through her, settling in her thighs. Emma hoped fervently that no one else would find her. She couldn't possibly return to the ball for a while; she had to be as flushed as a freshly deflowered virgin. And if she went back to the ball_ now _, people would take one look at her and think that that was exactly what had happened._

_"Oh Killian," she whispered under her breath, wishing she could refer to him so intimately, that he returned her feelings, that there was a path that would lead to happiness with him._

_But that was nothing but wishful thinking._

_"Princess?"_

_Emma's eyes shot open, surprised to see Lieutenant Jones standing before her again. He watched her uncertainly. "Lieutenant Jones," she said breathlessly, not quite recovered from her indulgence of intimate thoughts concerning him. "I thought you had left."_

_"I did. I went to speak with your mother. I hope you don't mind, princess, but I told her you were feeling faint, overheated in the crush of the ballroom." He studied her again. "It looks as if I wasn't too far off from the truth."_

_Her cheeks grew hotter. "I'm fine," she lied._

_"Well," he said with a skeptical look, "I'm to escort you to your room, either way." He offered her his arm with a smile._

_She accepted it, stepping out from behind the statue. Their shoes echoed on the marble floor as they approached the staircase. Neither of them said a word as they moved through the palace, arm in arm. It was a comfortable silence, and Emma had the odd sense that it brought them closer._

_"Why?" she finally asked as they stood outside her room. "Why did you tell my mother that?"_

_"Everyone needs some time alone, some time to think," he said simply. "Overwhelmed princesses especially," he told her with a soft smile._

_Emma's heart skipped a beat. Without thinking, she clasped her hands in his. Shock shone in his ocean-hued eyes, and Emma flushed. "Thank you, Lieutenant," she murmured. She surged up on her toes and pressed a kiss to his cheek before her brain could catch up with her hormones. Had she been anyone other than a princess, the action would have been impertinent. As it was, it teetered on the line of impropriety, but Emma knew Lieutenant Jones would never take advantage._

_Yet when she pulled away, for one crazy moment, when their faces were but inches apart, Emma thought she saw something heated in his gaze, thought he might kiss her._

_But the moment passed, almost as fast as she could blink, and Lieutenant Jones stepped back. He pulled his hands from her grasp, clasping them together behind his back. "Goodnight, princess," he said softly._

_"Goodnight," she sighed, turning away to unlock her door. She slipped inside her room, smiling at him once more before she shut the door. Emma leaned against it, listening to his footsteps fade away._ Goodnight, Killian, _she thought sadly._

"Emma."

Killian's voice shook her from the memory, and she looked at her husband, marveling again at life's cruel sense of humor. She'd never been able to have him when she'd wanted him. Her lovestruck younger self would have killed to be in the position she was in right now, never mind that Killian hardly loved _her_ any more than he had ever loved her younger self. Still, if not for Neal, maybe things would have been different. Maybe she and Killian could have had the chance to be something more, to grow fond of each other, at least.

But then, if not for Neal, she'd never have married Killian to begin with. The irony, thick and bitter, was almost more than she could stand. The only way she had been able to secure the man she used to love was through the man she had thought she had a reasonable chance of a future with. And the worse part of it all was that neither of them, Killian or Neal, had ever loved her.

Maybe she didn't deserve love.

"Emma," Killian repeated from the other side of the carriage. Emma realized with a start that the carriage had stopped, and she had never responded to him. "We're here. You all right, love?" He watched her, blue eyes filled with concern.

"Yes."

"Don't lie to me," he insisted. "At least give me that consideration. You looked straight at me and then lost yourself in thought again."

She sighed, shifting restlessly. "I can't simply stop thinking, Killian, much as I'd like to."

"I know," he answered, his tone as serious and somber as her own. "But do come up for a smile now and then, love."

"Yours or mine?" she deadpanned.

"Why, lady's preference, of course," he answered with a straight face, blue eyes dancing with mirth.

Emma snorted. There was very little to be happy about these days, so far as she was concerned. But Killian was being very kind about everything. _Too_ kind, really. She certainly didn't deserve it. He _was_ making quite an effort on her behalf to make the best of things, and Emma supposed she owed him the courtesy of trying to rein in some of her moodiness--at least in his presence. It wasn't his fault he'd been roped into marrying her.

"Killian--"

The carriage door opened, interrupting her. Killian shot her an apologetic look. "Hold that thought, love," he said, exiting the carriage. He glanced in askance at Emma. She shook her head. Killian turned to the footman, waving  him away with orders to take their luggage inside, and held out his hand. Emma took it, stepping out of the carriage with relief. She had spent too many hours cramped into its seats, even if they had broken their journey up. She inhaled the crisp air into her lungs, and Killian released her hand. "Come," he said quietly, "they're waiting for us."

Emma followed Killian across the courtyard, lifting the hem of her plum colored skirt slightly as they climbed up the steps to the palace. A woman in a powder-blue gown with long, wavy red hair and a bright smile waited at the top, next to a tall, clean-shaven man wearing a military uniform similar to Killian's, with neatly combed raven hair.

"Captain," Killian greeted him with a firm handshake and a smile. "Or is it 'Your Highness' while we are here?"

"Considering I did nothing to merit my position as prince, 'Captain' will do just fine," the other man returned with a smirk.

The red-haired woman swatted his arm gently. "Eric," she reproached, "do stop teasing."

"Yes, dear," he acquiesced with a fond smile. "Ariel, I'd like you to meet Her Highness, Princess Emma Charming. Of course, you're already acquainted with Killian, though his title is a bit more impressive these days." He smirked at his mate. "Prince Consort, Lt. Killian Jones, isn't it?"

Killian shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "Something like that.

"It's wonderful to see you again, Killian," Ariel said, sweeping him into a hug. She turned to Emma. "And you," she said, "I'm pleased to finally meet you," she said, pulling her into a hug. Emma sent a panicked looked to Killian. "I hope we can become the best of friends, Emma, as our husbands are."

"Uh," she stuttered, uncertain how to respond.

"Emma," Killian spoke up, "are you feeling all right?" She shot him a confused look. "You look quite _pale_ ," he went on with a significant look.

Ariel released Emma with a cry, her hand flying up to cover her mouth. "Oh, how silly of me! How could I have forgotten! You must rest, Emma! We'll have servants show you and Killian to you chamber. Supper won't be ready for another couple of hours yet."

_Thank you_ , Emma told Killian silently, holding his gaze for a moment.

He smiled softly.

Supper was a casual affair--at least as casual as a palace meal could be--but it was private, and for that Emma was grateful. The idea of putting up a false front for a room full of strangers, smiling when she didn't want to smile, talking when she didn't want to talk, appealed to her about as much as imbibing a glassful of vinegar. As it was, her companions carried the bulk of the conversation, content to let Emma contribute as little as she wished. It gave her time to observe and consider her new husband, to acquaint herself with the Lieutenant she had once thought she understood so well, shared a connection with. What kind of man was as he _really_?

But as supper progressed, and Killian grew more and more relaxed in the company of his friends, Emma came to a disturbing conclusion: the Lieutenant was in fact as nice and genuine and charming as he'd always seemed to her as a lovestruck adolescent. And he had quite the sarcastic wit when occasion called for it, if the stories Eric shared about him were any indication. The prince was telling the tales as much for her benefit as to reminisce with Killian, she knew, catching the prince's clear blue eyes considering her from time to time as he spoke. But to what end, Emma had no idea. If Eric meant to spark her curiosity, well, it was certainly aflame, she'd give him that. But if he hoped to thereby draw her into conversation, he had sorely miscalculated. Emma couldn't have contributed to the conversation, even if she had wanted to. And, strangely, she found after a while that she _did_ want to. But she was too much in shock, too confused, to even open her mouth.

"Emma," Ariel finally said over dessert (a delicious chocolate mousse that Emma practically inhaled, much to Killian's, and their hosts', amusement), "perhaps you would like to accompany me to my appointment with my dressmaker tomorrow morning?"

Emma slanted a look in Killian's direction.

_Go_ , his eyes encouraged.

"What about our morning walk?" she inquired. Killian had taken to escorting her for a stroll each morning, since the exercise and fresh air seemed to do her some good, brightening her mood, if nothing else. It was the next best thing to her usual morning ride. The idea of spending her morning at the dressmaker's instead made Emma feel restless and unhappy.

"We can take our walk in the afternoon," he offered. His gaze drifted down to her belly, its slight swell disguised by the cut of her gown. "Get yourself some new gowns, love," he said softly.

Emma swallowed. He was right, of course. Her old dresses wouldn't be wearable for much longer. It was a reality she had been doing her best to avoid confronting. "All right," she told Ariel, "I'd be delighted to accompany you." A lie, but what else could she say? She had nothing against Ariel (she didn't even know the woman), but a dressmaker's appointment was the last place Emma wanted to be on a _normal_ day. Now that she carried Neal's child...Well, it was even less appealing. Emma knew it was ridiculous. She couldn't hide from reality, especially when it was growing at an alarming rate inside of her, causing her to empty the contents of her stomach on a regular basis (most often during her morning walks with Killian, who simply held her hair out of the way and waited for it to subside). But going to the dressmaker's, getting new clothes... Emma wasn't certain she was ready for that.

"Wonderful!" Ariel smiled. "It will give us the chance to get acquainted with each other."

Dinner concluded soon after that, and the foursome retired to the drawing room. Eric and Killian took a little wine, but Ariel, Emma noticed, chose to drink water with her. "You don't have to do that," she told her host.

"Oh, it's no problem," Ariel said. She cast a glance over at Eric. "Besides, tea this late in the evening would only keep me awake all night."

"Uncle Killy!" a voice shrieked.  A small form in a long, white nightdress streaked through the room, dark hair rippling behind her. She leaped, throwing herself onto Killian with a sigh of delight.

"Oof!" Killian grunted on impact. "Hello, Melly," he grinned, swinging her up into his arms and settling her against his side. "Snuck out of the nursery again when your nurse fell asleep?"

Her head bobbed up and down enthusiastically, while her parents looked on in amused exasperation. "I had to _see_ you, Uncle Killy! Tomorrow takes _forever_ to get here!"

"Well," Killian said, leaning head toward her conspiratorially, "it tends to arrive sooner, Melly dearest, when you sleep as you're supposed to!"

"But I'll miss all the fun with you!" she whined.

"I'll still be here for fun tomorrow," he promised, setting her down on the floor again.  "But there's someone I'd like you to meet, first." He led the little girl over to the settee where Emma sat. "Melly, this is my wife, Emma. Emma, this is Melly."

"Hi," the little girl said with wide eyes. "You're pretty."

"You're pretty, too," Emma returned with a smiled of her own, entertained despite herself. "I'm pleased to meet you."

"Melly, time for bed now," Ariel said firmly, "You've said your hellos."

"You heard your mum," Killian said when Melly looked as if she wanted to protest. "And make sure to apologize to your nurse for sneaking away."

"All right," Melly grumbled darkly, a scowl on her face.  She brightened. "Good night, Uncle Killy!" she said with an enthusiastic hug to his legs, her mood changing back to cheerful so fast that it made Emma's head spin. She skipped over to Ariel, leaving Emma to stare after her in fascination.

"How old is she?" Emma asked, after mother and daughter left.

"Four," Eric answered. "And quite the handful, as you can see." But it was quite clear, despite his exasperated tone, that Eric loved his daughter more than life itself.

"Considering some of your exploits," Killian teased, "I'd say she comes by it honestly."

Eric snorted. "You're one to talk. Liam's told me plenty about what you got up to before you enlisted."

"Perhaps the navy did us both some good," Killian admitted. "Congratulations again on your promotion, mate."

"Thank you. I'm just sorry duty precluded our attendance at your wedding. Melly would have loved to strew flowers down the aisle."

"And we would have loved to have had her," Emma said quietly.

Killian's gaze swung over to her. Blue eyes blazed with a mixture of gratitude and surprise. Emma dimly registered Eric saying something about being glad they'd at least arranged a visit. Killian replied to him, but his gaze still centered on Emma. He tilted his head speculatively, and his eyes traveled down to her belly.

Guilt surged through her. Did he regret that he would be father to a child that wasn't his? _Of course he does_ , she thought. _Don't be a fool_. Self-loathing suffocated her guilt. A knot twisted in her stomach. "Pardon me," she said suddenly, rising to her feet. "I think I need to lie down."

Killian was at her side in a blink. "Are you feeling ill?" he murmured. "Or simply tired?"

"I--"  She swallowed. Neither were accurate. Neither were a lie. "I need to go."

He reached for her. "Let me help you."

Her lungs closed up, and she began to sweat. "No!" she said harshly, moving away. He drew back with a frown, his brow furrowed. "No, I'm--I'll have one of the maids take me. I'm--I'm sorry."

"Emma, don't--"

But she fled from the room before he could finish, before he could say the hated words, because she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that it _was_ her fault. If not for her, for her stupid naivety, he'd be free; he wouldn't be trapped in a marriage he'd been given no choice about. She sniffed, tears of hatred and self-rage rolling down her cheeks. She lurched down the corridor blindly, and plowed straight into the returning Ariel.

"Emma?" Her voice was laced with concern. "Oh, Emma," she repeated softly. Her gaze was sympathetic, even compassionate, and Emma knew she didn't deserve it. "Come on," the other woman said. "I'll walk you to your chamber."

Emma followed, praying she would be asleep before Killian returned to join her. She couldn't bear to look in those blue eyes, the ones she had once loved and fantasized about, and see her own pain and loathing reflected in them. All she wanted, all she craved, was oblivion.


	5. Chapter Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: WARNING: possible trigger event in the last (third) section of this chapter. If you think you might be at all sensitive to something like that, I suggest you skip it and pick back up in chapter six.

Killian stared at the empty doorway, trying to process what had just happened. One moment, they'd shared a connection through Melly, and he'd begun to entertain thoughts of what raising the child within Emma would be like, if he would be a good father to it, and the next Emma was offering flimsy excuses and fleeing from the room, visibly upset. He shouldn't have tried to touch her, especially when she was already struggling, he knew that now. He simply hadn't been thinking. He'd acted on impulse, born of Emma's quiet acceptance of his aid in the past few days, of her allowing him to act as her buffer from unwanted contact with other people. He'd thought...assumed...that she was growing comfortable with him. That she trusted him.

He'd been horribly wrong.

Killian made his way over to one of the chairs and sat down, feeling numb. Eric heaved a sigh. Killian vaguely registered the sounds of a drink being poured, and heavy footsteps. A glass was thrust into his line of vision. He looked up, confused.

"You look like you could use it."

He accepted the drink, swirling it around in the glass before he took a drink. "Rum?" he coughed in surprise.

Eric shrugged a shoulder. He sat down in a chair across from Killian, holding his own glass of rum. "Well," he said, "this isn't the sort of situation wine soothes particularly well, is it?"

"No. I suppose not." He took another drink of the strong alcohol. He'd never cared much for it. The taste left something to be desired, and he hated to become one of the rum-swilling sailor stereotypes. And it led to bad form among his sailors, if he allowed them to indulge when he and Liam were sailing; so he didn't. But at the moment, Killian found he simply didn't care about any of that.

He took another drink.

"Does she even want the baby?" Eric finally asked, voicing the question Killian has asked himself a thousand times.

"I don't know," he admitted. "We never talk about it. Emma avoids mentioning it, even by implication, as much as possible."

"Hmmph," Eric grunted. He sat in thoughtful silence for a moment. "Any word about Neal?"

"Not a damn thing. He's disappeared into the gods-damned thin air," Killian growled.

"What about Goldberg?"

"He's hardly talking; he'll protect his son."

"If you had evidence that he knows something, some proof, you could arrest him. Make him talk."

"We don't. The count and his son have been very careful," he answered bitterly. "They know how to cover their own tracks."

"Does Charming think it's possible to find him?"

Killian shrugged. "From his dogged pursuit to bring him to justice, I'd have to assume the answer is yes." Neal had better hope that it is Charming who catches up to him, and not I. I'd like nothing better than to horsewhip him for what he's done to Emma." He down the rest of his rum in one large gulp. "For what he's putting her through now." Killian shook his head. "Emma blames herself, you know. Believes it was her fault."

Eric stood up and walked across the room to retrieve the bottle of rum. "I don't know what to tell you, mate," he sighed, returning to his chair. He leaned across and poured another measure of rum into Killian's glass."Nothing about this situation is easy."

Killian smiled self-mockingly. "You know me: I've always loved a challenge." He scrubbed at his chin with one hand, agitated.

"A beanstalk isn't grown in a day," Eric quoted at him.

"No," he agreed. "And make no mistake, I'm in this for the long haul. Emma deserves a happy life, as does the child she carries."

"Maybe Ariel can help," Eric suggested quietly.

"What, magic?" Killian exclaimed, looking up. "When she's with child?" He shook his head. "No. I won't risk it for either of them."

"No," Eric said. "Not magic. Ariel...she has a way with people."

"Yes, she's quite charming, I'll grant you, but how's that to help Emma at all?"

"Because what Emma can really use right now is a friend." Killian winced. "And as much as you'd like to step into that role for her right now," Eric continued, "you're a man. And that complicates everything. Perhaps if she had another woman to talk to, it might help."

"Perhaps," he agreed, lifting his glass to his lips. Killian took a drink, the spiced liquid burning a trail across his tongue that wasn't altogether unpleasant anymore. "But Emma needs to know that I'm here for her, and that I'm not going away. Even when she does her best to withdraw and push me away."

"Well," Eric said after a long while in which each of the men nursed their drinks pensively, "actions speak louder than words, and I don't know that you can do much more than you're already doing. Give it time. She's still newly pregnant, mate. That's adjustment enough. Everything Neal did is still fresh in her mind."

"I know. I know. I thought we'd made a little progress, that's all."

"Perhaps you did. But true progress doesn't come without a few setbacks, Killian. And in this case..."

"And in this case, probably a whole bloody lot of them," Killian finished for him.

"Now, now," Eric smiled slightly, "let's not get too discouraged, Killy." Killian's eyes narrowed at the use of Melly's nickname for him. "You are, after all, in this for the long haul, as you said." Eric sobered. "Win her trust, Killian. Then her friendship. The rest will sort itself out eventually."

"What the bloody hell are you talking about, mate?"

"Nothing," Eric answered, tipping back his glass of rum to swallow its last dregs. "Just a hunch."

*

Killian gave Emma space over the next few days, although he took care to make it clear that he wasn't avoiding her. He took his usual walk in the morning with Emma, and they had afternoon tea together in the privacy of their guest chamber, but beyond that, they saw little of each other outside meals, Killian dividing the rest of his time between entertaining Melly and helping Eric with the estate. Killian had a lot to learn about helping Emma run a kingdom, and learning the particulars of running a small estate seemed a good place to start.

For the little time they did spend together, Killian and Emma fell into a quiet routine. And while it wasn't easy, given the tension between them, it was achingly familiar, the manner in which they seemed able to communicate without words. There had been moments, brief and seldom though they had been during the past seven years, in which Killian had glimpse something of a kindred spirit in Emma. That such kinship seemed to be sliding out of his fingers pained him, and on the eighth day, he decided to do something about it.

"Not just yet, love," he told her as she settled her cloak around her shoulders in preparation for their morning walk, "Let's wait a moment."

She turned to him in surprise, green eyes reflecting her confusion. "What for? To wait out the snow?"

They were the first words she had directly spoken to him in days. They were neither intimate, nor friendly, but they weren't openly hostile or distant, either. To Killian, they were more precious than jewels.

"No. I have something to give you."

She blinked. "But...we already gave each other our weddings gifts back at the inn, before we got here."

"I know. This is something different. Close your eyes."

"But--"

"Emma, love, just close them," he said gently. "Trust me."

She narrowed her eyes, a suspicious look on her face. With a frown, she slowly closed her eyes. "Now what?" she asked.

"Nothing. Just stay where you are. And no peeking!"

She snorted. "I do not peek!"

Killian smirked. That wasn't entirely true, but he wasn't about to point that out to her. Emma had always been the impatient sort,  and she'd never _quite_ managed to rein in _all_ her excitement about her birthday. She loved it all: the gifts, the visiting relatives, even the ball thrown in her honor. (Her birthday ball was, in fact, the only ball she enjoyed.)

Emma seemed to sense his thoughts. "That was _one_ time!" she insisted, her eyes still firmly shut.

"So you say. I'm not convinced." He opened his trunk, rummaging around inside of it. "Don't you remember? I caught you red-handed."

_The princess stood in the empty ballroom, near a long table, which spanned the length of an entire wall. Her hair was plaited in a long braid that hung down her back, the hips of her slender form more apparent than usual in her fitted red riding leathers. Wisps of hair framed her face in a golden halo, indicating she'd been out riding already, mesmerizing Killian, whose breath caught in his throat for a moment. Emma looked a vision, a beautiful angel, to him. But then, she always did. Emma would have looked stunning in sackcloth._

_She hummed to herself, a tune so adorably off key Killian couldn't identify it in the slightest. He grinned, watching her lean over the table to examine one of the presents. Long, slender fingers slid under the edge of the wrapping paper, slowly working the glue loose with a gentle shimmying and push of her fingers._

_Well, well, well. What an interesting development._

_Emma lifted the flap of the present and tilted her head to the side, biting her lower lip._

_"Princess?"_

_Emma jumped back from the pile of gifts, clasping her hands behind her back guiltily. "Lieutenant Jones!" she exclaimed. "What--what are you doing here?"_

_He held up the package, wrapped in plain brown parcel paper. "From the Captain and the rest of the crew on the Jewel," he explained. His eyes slid over to the partially unwrapped present, but he said nothing. Emma flushed. She sidled back over to the table and quickly slapped the flap of wrapping paper back into place. Killian jerked his head toward the table, amused. "See anything that looks promising?"_

_"No," Emma frowned. "I mean, yes, I do, but..."_

_Killian placed the package on the table. "But what?" he asked curiously._

_"The one I'm looking for isn't here." Her forehead crinkled. She frowned again, disappointment sparking in her eyes._

_Killian hesitated. "Forgive me, princess, but how do you know it's not here? What are you looking for?"_

_She sighed. "Every birthday I've had for the past few years," she explained, "there's one unsigned gift in the pile."_

_"It's an easy enough mistake to make, forgetting to sign the calling card," he mused, "or for one to get lost. They are rather small."_

_"Maybe, but I think this is deliberate._

_"Why do you say that?"_

_"It's wrapped the same way every year: red paper with curling black ribbon."_

_"Hmm, that does indicate a bit of forethought," he agreed. "Perhaps you've an admirer."_

_She shook her head. "No," she disagreed, "these gifts are nearly always the same thing: a book of adventure stories. Although..."_

_Killian waited._

_"..._ one _year, it was a book of verse instead." She smiled slightly. "My favorite book now. I don't even like verse, usually. But these are...different. They aren't sappy poems about love or flowers or nature's crowning glory," she rolled her eyes. "They're about life, about discovery, about the longing for something more."_

_"Then perhaps he realizes you wouldn't appreciate the usual sort of gifts from an admirer."_

_Emma looked thoughtful. "Maybe," she said slowly, "but why hasn't he ever said anything to me?" Her green eyes flicked up to his. "It doesn't make sense."_

_"I can't say, princess," he said helplessly._

_She waved a hand dismissively. "Never mind. It doesn't matter. Looks like it's over and done with, anyway." Emma turned to him expectantly, her eyes shining with anticipation. "You'll be here for the ball, Lieutenant?" she smiled._

_"No, I'm afraid not," he admitted with regret. "I set sail in two days.  King's orders."_

_Her face fell. "The morning of my birthday," she murmured. "You'll miss the ball."_

_"Aye."_

_"How long will you be gone?"_

_"Three months."_

_"So long?" She arched a brow. "It must be quite an undertaking."_

_"I'm not at liberty to say," he said uncomfortably._

_"Of course not," she agreed. "Which means it must have something to do with Regina."_

_"I'm--"_

_"Not at liberty to say," she finished with a laugh. "That's a yes."_

_Killian didn't know how to respond to that without risk of Emma further guessing the particulars of his mission. "I should take my leave," he said after a moment of awkward silence. "There's much to be done in preparation for our journey."_

_"Of course."_

_He bowed, lifting her hand. "Goodbye, Princess." He kissed her hand briefly and took his leave, returning to the Jewel. Liam kept him so busy, Killian didn't have another chance to return to the palace. But in the wee hours of the morning, on the day they were to set sail, when the sun had not quite peeked over the horizon, Killian called in favors with two guards and one servant to gain entry into the castle and access the ballroom. And there he left one book, wrapped in red paper with curling black ribbon. No calling card. He didn't want to disappoint Emma on her eighteenth birthday. He'd be forced to stop leaving them all too soon, he knew, in the coming years when she betrothed herself to some moron of a prince or nobleman's son who wasn't half worthy of her._

_But for now, for this year and this day, Killian would leave his gift, content with the knowledge that they pleased Emma. It mattered not in the slightest that she didn't know his identity, and he had no intention of ever revealing it to her. Her happiness was the only thing he'd ever desired anyway._

"Open your eyes," Killian said after he'd retrieved the box from his trunk.

Golden-brown eyelashes floated upward, revealing her jade eyes. Curiosity tinged with caution peered back at him from their depths. She took the proffered box and sat down on their bed. "What is it?"

"Open it and find out," he teased.  "It isn't a surprise if I spoil it for you beforehand."

Emma slowly untied the white ribbon that held the yellow box together and removed it, setting it aside. She pried the box's lid off. Her face scrunched together in confusion. "I don't understand." She lifted the pale green tunic up, sleeves falling to the sides as she peered at it quizzically.

"There's more. Keep digging."

Emma laid the tunic next to her and sifted through the paper inside the box. She pulled out a pair of black trousers and stared. "Killian," she faltered, "what is this?"

"I should think it's fairly obvious, love."

"But--I can't wear them. I'm..." She trailed off, not quite daring to say the word, even now.

"That's why the trousers are made of cloth, lass, and not leather. I spoke with Ariel's dressmaker after your appointment several days ago. Asked if she'd like to take on a special project."

"But...I'm going to be huge in a few months. Even cloth isn't going to stretch _that_ much."

"That's why it was a special project, love. She's familiar enough with creating gowns for ladies in your condition. The trick was to alter the trousers and tunic in the same way." He watched her, waiting for a reaction. Any reaction. "If you like them, we can have her make more," he ventured.

"Why?" she asked suddenly, looking a bit dazed.

"Just because you're expecting, Emma, doesn't mean you have to give up who you are."

She blinked. "How did she make them so fast? We haven't even received our gowns yet. They won't be ready until the middle of next week, at least."

She turned to him with narrowed eyes when he didn't answer. "Consider it a peace offering, love." He hesitated before speaking again. He knew there was some truth to Eric's words about Ariel being in a better position to be Emma's friend right now than he, but it couldn't hurt to extend the invitation anyway, could it? Even if she wasn't ready yet, at least she would know he cared, that he was here for her when she was ready. And how could he win her trust, as Eric suggested, if he wasn't first on friendly terms with her?

"I know this situation, this marriage is very different from what you imagined as a girl," he began, "but...I'd like to work toward friendship, at least."

"Friends?" she echoed.

"Yes." He smiled crookedly. "After all, if we're going to fight like this, Emma, I'd rather fight with a friend than a stranger or an enemy." He paused. "But if you're not ready, that's fine, too."

"Friends, huh?" she said after a long silence. "I'd like to be. I'll try, but... I'm not...I'm not the person I used to be. Some things are the same," her eyes flicked to the clothes he'd had the dressmaker create for her, "but..." She sighed.

"I know. You'll sort it out."

"And I can't promise I won't lose my temper or yell at you or cry uncontrollably."

"I know. I don't expect you to, Emma."

She looked at him helplessly. "Then what do you expect from me, Killian?" she demanded, frustration edging into her voice.

It was his turn to blink. "Nothing."

She looked at him skeptically, her mouth twisting into a bitter smile. "Men always expect something," she insisted. "You say it's not sex, so what is it?"

"Emma," he told her tiredly, "I am not Neal. But you are going to have to figure that out for yourself. Just...give us a chance, will you? When you're ready."

"I'll try," she repeated. "But I can't promise when that will be. I don't know if I'm ready yet."

"I understand." He smiled. "Wear the new clothes for our walk, then, love?"

A smile threatened on her serious face, the corners of her mouth twitching upward. "Give me a minute." She shucked off her cloak and bundled the clothing up in her arms. Emma disappeared behind the changing partition, a length of painted, hinged wood that folded up on itself like an accordion when it wasn't being used. Killian waited patiently. Though they had both grown more comfortable with Killian changing in the open room, Emma had not  yet ventured to do so, and Killian wasn't going to suggest she do so. He'd meant what he said. He had no demands or expectations of Emma. Hopes, to be sure, but those were a different thing altogether. If all Emma could ever offer him was friendship, if he was lucky enough to secure that, then he would learn to be content with that. As long as she was happy, nothing else mattered.

"Killian?" Emma called out from behind the partition.

"Hmm?"

"Thank you." She emerged from behind the partition, clad in the trousers and tunic. Her eyes were bright, her cheeks flushed in anticipation, and she'd plaited her hair back. It was the first effort to dress her hair that she had made since the wedding. It was a promising sign, he decided.

He smiled, taking in her appearance with worshipful eyes. She was beautiful, and she looked more Emma-like than he'd seen her in months. Killian swallowed, wanting very badly to compliment her appearance. Knowing how poorly it might be received, however, and not wishing to give the mistaken impression that he did have expectations of her, he responded instead by picking up her cloak from where she had discarded it. "Let's go for that walk, love."

*

Killian shifted restlessly, caught in the twilit realm between sleep and wakefulness, trying to drown out the sounds that were disturbing his sleep. Disjointed words and muffled cries nagged at him, dragging him out of his slumber by inches, until at last his consciousness had to respond. He opened his eyes, lids yet heavy with sleep, and tried to sort out what had woken him. The bed shook with movement, and Killian heard a whimper.

"Emma?" He reached over to the bedside table and lit the lamp. Light flared to life, illuminating the pitch black room. Emma thrashed in the bed next to him, tears running down her cheeks in her sleep. Killian felt his heart break for her. He sat up quickly, reaching over to shake her. "Emma. Emma, it's Killian. Wake up."

"No," she whimpered, pushing back against him.

"Emma, please," he begged, shaking her again. "Wake up, darling."

She shrank away from his touch with a sharp, wordless cry.

"Please," he tried again, reaching for her. " _Please_ , sweetheart. Wake up."

"No, stop," she moaned, struggling away from his touch.

Killian scooped her into his arms, determined. "Emma," he said loudly, "wake up!"

Her eyes flew open, wild with terror. She seized up in his arms, and her breathing became ragged, uneven. "GET OFF ME!" she shouted in his face, no hint of recognition in her eyes. "DON'T TOUCH ME!" Her hands flew up and she shoved him with enormous force, loosening his hold on her waist. "GET OFF!"

"Ungh!" A sharp blow to his left eye surprised him, and he fell back, clutching the side of his face. He cursed, a long string of obscene words he'd absorbed during his years of sailing, but rarely used. "Gods, Emma! If this is how you treat prospective friends, I think I'd rather be your enemy!"

It seemed to snap Emma out of her stupor.

"K--Killian?" she breathed, staring at him with a different sort of horror. "Oh, gods," she panicked, her voice vibrating with sorrow. "Oh no. I--I hurt you." She scooted closer to where he lay, propped up on one elbow. "I'm so sorry, Killian. I'm so sorry," she babbled. "I was dreaming, I didn't know--"

He huffed a breath. "I gathered that the first few times I tried to wake you."

Emma flinched, and a guilty look washed over face. "Is it bad?" She scrutinized him, cool fingers probing his skin with gentleness. Killian had dreamt of just this sort of touch from Emma for years--but under vastly different circumstances. He winced, hissing softly as her fingers made contact with the injury. "Easy, lass. It's quite tender."

"We need to put something on it," she fretted.

"It's the middle of the night, love."

"That doesn't mean we should just leave it to swell shut," she argued.

"Then what do you suggest we do?"

Emma glanced toward the window, looking thoughtful. "Give me a minute." She disentangled herself from the sheets and walked over to the door that led out to their private balcony. Emma disappeared into the cold, snow swirling around her, heedless of the fact that she wore no cloak or slippers.

She returned a moment later, her expression triumphant, holding a handful of snow. Rummaging in her belongings, she procured a handkerchief and bundled the snow inside of it. "Put this on your eye," she instructed. "It will keep the swelling down." She frowned at him. "And sit up for a while. Lying down won't do you any favors."

Killian obeyed, and Emma reached behind him, propping up his pillows to make a cushion for his back. He settled against the softness. "How long have you been having nightmares?" he asked after a while, feeling the need to fill the awkward silence.

"I don't know," she answered. "Since Neal, I guess. They come and go. Sometimes they're so vivid, it's like I'm there all over again. Other times, I wake up, covered in sweat, and there's nothing but this lingering feeling of fear and uneasiness. I--sometimes I vomit."

He gave her a pained look.

"I did--I did that night," she whispered almost inaudibly.

Killian couldn't believe his ears. It was the first time she'd spoken about Neal to him, perhaps to anyone since the incident."

"I can't--I still have trouble getting warm. Getting clean enough. I feel--I feel--" Her chin wobbled, lips pressing together firmly. Tears welled up in her eyes and spilled down her cheeks as she began to sob brokenly.

Killian laid the bundle of ice down, arm aching to hold her, to give comfort, but afraid to overstep his bounds, to compound her trauma. "Emma," he croaked, feeling powerless and worse than useless, "I don't know how to help. Should I get Ariel?"

She didn't hear him. He wasn't surprised. He watched helplessly as her chest heaved, and her lungs made an awful stuttering sound, over and over, as if she couldn't breathe.  Killian's heart thumped violently with fright, and he reached out for Emma without thinking. "Emma," he whispered, resting his hand on her back. "Emma, Neal's gone. He can't hurt you now." The crying increased, her hyperventilation growing worse at the sound of his name. Killian cursed to himself. He had no bloody idea what he was doing. He was only making it worse. "I'm sorry," he apologized, hating himself, "I don't know what to do." 

"Whuh--whuh--why?" It took a moment for Killian to understand what she'd said, much less what she meant. When her meaning hit him, rage coursed through him. "Whuh- _why_?"

Killian struggled to answer her, to respond in a way that wouldn't hurt her further. Revealing to her the depth of his anger and hatred toward Neal wouldn't help either of them. Empty words of comfort wouldn't help either, even if he could scrape any together. It would be insulting, even. Things weren't all right. They wouldn't be all right. Not tonight. Not for some time to come. And certainly not until Neal was apprehended and dealt with.

"I don't know," he answered. "I don't know why."

"Muh--my fault."

" _No_!" he said sharply. "No, it's not your fault, it's Neal's. You didn't do anything wrong, darling. You didn't do anything wrong." She curled into him without warning, head cradled against his chest, tears soaking the skin on his bare chest as she clung to him. Killian wrapped his arms around her, too disturbed and worried to feel any pleasure from her closeness. "You didn't deserve it, Emma," he insisted with all the firmness he could muster, stroking her hair. "No lass deserves to be taken unwillingly. You're not at fault."

She didn't respond to his words. Killian wasn't even certain whether she had heard them. But she didn't stir, so he held her close, waiting until she signaled otherwise, fingers dragging through her hair absently. Killian didn't know how long they sat there, Emma huddled against him, but gradually her sobs softened into whimpers, punctuated with a lot of sniffling. And when she quieted at last, they sat there longer still, neither of them speaking, until Emma's eyes grew heavy and she drifted off to sleep.

Killian leaned over and snuffed the lamp, trying to disturb Emma as little as possible. The room plunged into darkness again, but it was no longer pitch black. The greyness of approaching dawn filtered into the room from the windows, and Killian slid down in the bed a little, reclining to a more comfortable position. Pressing a kiss to the top of Emma's head, he closed his eyes, drifting into sleep again, his arms still curled around Emma.

It was the first time he'd ever held her. The first time she had ever sought his touch on her own. And it would be the last time they touched each other so intimately for months.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Well, there it is. That's what Emma and Killian are dealing with. I'm sure some of you are in shock, but I feel the need to point out that I dropped hints in chapters two and three, so this has been a planned part of the story since before I sat down to start writing it. If you go back and re-read those chapters, I think some things will make more sense in regards to things Emma and Killian both do and say.
> 
> And now that all of this is out in the open, you understand, I'm sure, why this could not ever have been a oneshot, once Emma's backstory took a darker turn in the plotting and planning stage of my fic. This is going to be a long fic, and the relationship a painstakingly slow build between them--at least if I manage to do the story and this issue any justice at all. I hope that you will stick around for the long haul, like Killian, but it will be a very bumpy ride. The one thing I can promise, though, is that no matter how rough things get, Emma and Killian will get a happy ending with each other.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	6. Chapter Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I just want to start out by saying thank you so, so much for all of your comments, reviews, follows, and favorites for this fic! It has been overwhelming, and it still doesn't seem real to me. I'm honestly rather nervous that I won't be able to perform up to such high expectations, but I'll do my best.

Emma awakened gradually, by shades, her consciousness sliding into awareness with all the gentleness of a mother kissing her newborn babe. Swaddled snugly in pleasant dreams of innocent, youthful days long past, just moments before, she burrowed deeper into the warmth that surrounded her, unwilling to open her eyes. She hadn't felt this safe or comfortable or warm--or _rested_ , even--for ages. She wasn't about to give it up. Her parents could survive a morning without her, surely. And her stuffy old tutors would just have to reschedules for tomorrow afternoon. Emma wasn't about to give up her daily ride just because she chose to sleep through her normal time slot in the schedule this morning. Her parents probably wouldn't be thrilled with that part, but damn it, she was a princess. Surely that ought to come with a few perks once in a while, shouldn't it? It wasn't as if she made a habit of this. Her parents wouldn't have stood for it anyway.

Sighing in utter contentment, she shifted in the bed, rolling onto her other side. Her nose slid against something smooth and gently coarse, a ticklish sensation niggling at her. She rubbed at the bridge of her nose blindly, the pleasant scent of salt and rain and something else, something unique, something unmistakably male and--

Her eyes shot open. A wall of dark chest hair greeted her, rising and falling in a gentle motion, like waves lapping the shoreline. Panic seized her when she realized that not only was a man in bed next to her, but that that same man had an arm slung possessively over her waist, chaining her to the spot where she lay. The urge to shove him away was overwhelming, but something, she didn't even understand what, whispered not to act rashly, reminded her muddled thoughts that this was Killian, her husband.

She closed her eyes, concentrating on nothing more than the simple but very difficult task of breathing in and breathing out at a steady pace. Her heart beat slowed after a time, and Emma opened her eyes again, considering how best to extricate herself without disturbing him. She winced as she spied his injured eye, purplish-black in the sunlight that filtered through the gauzy curtains of their chamber. Her attempt to ease its swelling appeared to have done little good, for even in his slumbering state, she could see how puffy it was. All her fault. Doubly so, since he might have kept the snow on it longer if she hadn't broken down sobbing.

Emma felt mortified at baring herself to him, all the brokenness and vulnerability, the very dirtiness of her soul. Nausea, which she knew in her bones had nothing to do with the baby, washed over her. That she had sought his comfort at all scared her. That she had sought it so _instinctively_ plain disturbed her.  Had she no more defenses against him now than during her foolish lovesick delusions of the past? It was his kindness, the genuineness in him that had disarmed her, yes, but it was _she_ who had opened wide the gate last night and let him in to console her. Now Emma didn't know what to do. If he honestly hadn't had any expectations of her before, surely he would _now_...

Killian sighed in his sleep, and Emma softened toward him, taking in the gentleness of his face. He stirred a little, and she braced herself, expecting him to awaken. But he shifted closer to her instead, breath warming her forehead as he mumbled nonsense. Most of it was incoherent, but she recognized the syllables of her own name well enough, garbled though they were. She stiffened as panic seized her again, breaths becoming short and quick. Bracing herself with one hand flat against the bed, Emma shimmied her way out of his grasp with painstaking slowness. His hand fell, flopping back onto the sheets, and he slumbered on, undisturbed.

Relieved, she eased herself out of the bed and tiptoed toward the dresser she was using during their stay at the Westensees. Opening the top drawer quite slowly, so it wouldn't creak, she collected fresh under things and shut the drawer with exquisite care. The next drawer revealed the clothes Killian had gifted to her yesterday, and her hand froze just before her fingertips touched the soft material of the tunic. She threw a hesitant glance over her shoulder toward the slumbering Killian. Had his kindness and goodwill all been a ruse? His statements about having no expectations of her, a clever lie? Were the clothes but something to bribe her with, to gain her trust?

Swallowing around the lump in her throat, Emma closed the drawer with shaking hands. With a blindness born out of fear and sorrow, she plucked a dress out of the third drawer, uncaring of which it was. It could be sackcloth for all she cared. Surely she deserved a dress of sackcloth anyway.

Emma ducked behind the collapsible wooden partition and dressed quickly. Rescuing her cloak from a brass peg near the door, she settled it about her shoulders and turned to regard her husband. He faced away from her, the sheets twisted and tangled up in his legs, bare toes peeping out from under the edge of the blanket. Blinking several times to dispel the tears that threatened in her eyes, Emma took a deep breath. "I can't take the chance that I'm wrong about you," she whispered to him. "I'm sorry."

Grasping the handle of the door in her hand, Emma twisted it and fled from the room.

*

Emma stared at the base of the wooden half-wall across from her. The musty smell of hay filled her nostrils, mixing with the phantom scent of horses sent out to pasture hours before. Brushing uselessly at the hay that stuck to her emerald skirts, Emma sighed. How many times had she sat on a bale of hay just like this, back in the stables at home, trying to muddle her way through the tangle of thoughts and emotions she held for Killian? She wasn't certain she could count them, even if she had an interest in trying. And though the situation, her feelings, were reversed from that of her adolescence, the resulting despondence was the same. Both situations seemed impossible, each in their own way. Young, foolish Emma couldn't have the Lieutenant she desired, couldn't wrap her arms around him and feel his warmth, hold him close in the night and make him hers forever. Adult Emma _could_ , and the possibility scared her witless. If she let him in as she had Neal, if her judgment this time was as utterly wrong it had been about Neal...

Emma knew it wouldn't take much more heartache to destroy her, to raze her heart to ruins completely.

"Do you mind if I join you?"

Emma looked up. Ariel stood just outside the stall, one arm wrapped around a post, peering at her with the ghost of a smile on her delicate features.

She considered the other woman for several moments, debating with herself. Ariel wasn't bad company, she'd learned, for all that the other woman had a much more traditionally feminine bent than Emma. She was nothing like the tomboyish, portal-jumping nomad, Alice--Emma's best friend since childhood. Ariel offered a quiet steadiness and dependability that Alice, as much as Emma treasured her, had never been able to, the way she roved in and out of Emma's life with cheerful unpredictability. Emma wasn't altogether certain that she didn't like it.

"Did he send you?" she finally asked.

"He did. He's very upset you know."

"I had to," she sighed. "I had to get out of there."

Ariel lifted a large basket into view. "Without food or drink first?"

Emma frowned. "I wasn't thinking."

"Good thing your husband is," she said lightly, stepping over to Emma. "Scoot over," she ordered. Emma complied, and Ariel set the basket down front of them. "That's what he's upset about, you know," she continued as she handed Emma a freshly baked currant bun. "That you left without eating, without talking to anyone first."

"Maybe," she allowed, unwilling to argue the point. She bit into the bun and chewed thoughtfully. Ariel took out her own bun and nibbled at it cautiously. Emma watched her with a frown. "How far along?"

"What?" Ariel blinked at her in confusion.

"How far along in the pregnancy are you?"

"H--how do you know?"

She shrugged. "Takes one to know one," she sighed. "But the major clues are your avoidance of alcohol and your eating habits. You look ready to pass out every time someone passes by with a platter of sausages or bacon."

"The smell sickens me," she admitted, looking faintly green just talking about it. "It was never this way with Melly. I just...I hope it's a good sign. Our last pregnancies haven't..." she trailed off, immeasurable pain reflected in her eyes. "I'm not certain how far along I am. I haven't seen a physician yet. I haven't even told _Eric_." Emma raised an eyebrow. "It...I can't do it. Not until I know for certain the baby will be all right. I can't raise his hopes only for him to be hurt again, if we lose the child."

"So you'd carry that burden of pain yourself instead? Close yourself off from him and keep that secret, suffer that pain alone for the rest of your days? Won't that hurt you both in the end, drive you apart and prevent any real healing from occurring?"

Ariel shot her a startled look. "I hadn't thought of it that way," she admitted softly. "I simply wanted to spare him the pain of another loss. We--it...it isn't easy for us to conceive to begin with. I think...I wonder...if our difficulties stem from our having such different heritages."

Emma frowned. "I don't see how."

"Well, I was a mermaid, and he is a human..."

"Not that," she waved her hand dismissively. She took another bite of the bun, strangely enjoying the sour-sweet tang of the currants. "I meant," she said, after swallowing, "that I don't see why it would have anything to do with your different heritages. You have a genuine human body when you wear that bracelet, don't you?"

"I think so."

"Then I'm not sure the mermaid heritage is responsible. It might just be normal human difficulties, you know. And if that's the case, maybe there's someone out there who can do something about it."

"Maybe," Ariel nodded, a hopeful catch in her voice. She turned to Emma. "What about you?"

She blinked. "What about me?"

"You know, you and Killian." She bumped Emma pointedly with one knee. "Every bit of what you said can be applied to your own situation, you know."

Emma cursed under her breath. Ariel was right. She hadn't even realized, when she'd said them. And now she was trapped in a web of her own making. Ariel's pain might be different than her own, but it was no less real. An Emma wouldn't insult the other woman with excuses and implications that it was.

"He wants to be friends," she said instead, finishing up the last bites of her bun. The pastry had stoked the flames of Emma's appetite, and she lifted the cloth of the basket Ariel had brought, looking for more. It was the first breakfast she had had in days that had not rebelled practically the moment she swallowed it.

Ariel paused in her own meal, issuing Emma a thoughtful look. "It scares you." Her words were neither question, nor answer, but some amalgamation of the two. She reached into the basket, producing a water skin. She handed it to Emma, then retrieved one of her own. "Well," she said, when it became apparent that Emma wasn't going to respond, "what, specifically, scares you about it?"

"That it won't be enough for him. That he'll want more. He does want more. On our w-wedding night--" she fumbled over the word, uncomfortable with the associations that word evoked, "--he admitted he'd like--he'd like to--"

"Make love?" Ariel inquired gently.

" _No!_ " Emma snapped. Her lip curled at the phrase. She didn't suffer any illusions about what Killian wanted. What they all wanted. Not anymore. "He wants sex." A warm, female body to ejaculate into. Love wasn't any part of the equation. It never had been, certainly not with Killian. Her foolish dreams otherwise had long since been abandoned, and their remnants shattered like the most delicate of glass. "Like all men do," she said harshly. "He even said so. That they want it."

Ariel's brows drew together, lips pressing together in a firm line. "That doesn't mean he'll force himself on you," she insisted with a firm defensiveness. "Killian isn't that type of person."

Emma winced. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I didn't..." she trailed off, feeling as useless and inadequate as the words of her apology. "He--I don't know what to think. What if he's tricking me?"

For a moment, Ariel looked as if she might defend Killian again, but she shook her head, as if thinking better of it. "What makes you think he could?" she asked curiously. "Is it just the circumstances, or something else?"

"Both."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning I don't know how he can admit he wants sex," she burst out angrily, the words tumbling out of her despite the fear that wanted nothing more than to keep them all bottled inside, "but insist that he won't _force_ the issue, all in one breath, and _then_ come back days later and claim that he wants friendship, that he has no expectations of me! That doesn't make any sense!"

"Killian is not a deceitful person, Emma," Ariel said quietly. "That is not in his nature." She frowned, chewing on her lower lip. "Wanting is not the same thing as taking. Neither is sex anything like...what you went through. And making love, that's something altogether different from them both." She shook her head. "I know those are just words to you right now, but they need to be said."

And Emma was hardly in a position to believe Killian if he said them. The words were unspoken but well understood by them both.

"You can't spend your life worrying about what Killian might or might not want in the future," Ariel said after a short silence. "Think about what _you_ want."

"I--I don't know," she admitted helplessly.

 "Then maybe you need to spend some more time with Killian to figure it out," Ariel finished quietly. "Get to know him. For both your sakes."

*

Emma fiddled with the tail of her plait, curling the end of it around her finger absently as she chewed over Ariel's words. They had been hounding her all day, invading her thoughts and nagging at her most insistently, especially during dinner, when she had seen Killian for the first time that day. His eye looked as puffy and darkened as ever, and Emma had hardly been able to look in his direction after that, much less speak to him. She felt embarrassed that she had done that to him, that he had suffered the fallout from her own trauma when he had only been trying to help her. But more than all of that, she felt bad for leaving without a word this morning, for slipping away from the house and their hosts without even a greeting, and making him worry after her in the process. It was hardly the way to treat someone who had been a shelter for her last night, a safe haven from her nightmares.

She didn't know if she could be a friend to Killian. She had already hurt him when he had tried to be a friend to her. The thought that she might keep doing so sickened her, but she had to face the possibility. Didn't he deserve more than constant hurt and rejection? If she couldn't offer him more than that, she didn't want to be his friend.

But the only way to know what she had to offer him, small pittance though it might be at this point, was to heed Ariel's advice and spend time with him. To attempt friendship. And hope they didn't both get burned in the process.

A soft knock sounded on the door.

Emma turned toward it from where she sat on the bed, waiting for Killian. "Come in," she sighed. _Back to this again?_ she thought with a flash of annoyance. The door creaked open, and Killian poked his head through the opening, his expression uncertain.

"May I--?" he started to ask.

She rolled her eyes. "Just get in and shut the door," she shook her head. It reminded her so very much of their wedding night that she couldn't help but smile briefly. Hopefully this night would go better than that one had. "I told you. It's your room, too. You don't have to knock."

Killian closed the door behind him. "I didn't, um, know if you might be changing," he explained, scrubbing the back of his neck with one hand.

  1. She flushed. "That's what the partition is for," she argued weakly.



"Even when I'm not present?"

He had her there.  "I'll lock the door if that's the case," she assured him.

"Good to know."

An awkward silence descended between them. "Um, I'm sorry for this morning," Emma finally said. "I shouldn't have left without telling anyone. Or eating."

"This is the second apology I will accept from you," he told her seriously. "Please don't make a habit of my doing so, Emma. I'd rather you simply took care of yourself and the child to begin with." He crooked a smile at her. "Pouring food in through your ear is starting to sound very appealing indeed."

She laughed shortly. "So noted."

He crossed over to her and sat down on the corner of the bed opposite her. "Emma...do you want to talk about last night?"

"No," she said flatly. "I talked too much last night. I'm not...it...I'm not ready to talk any more about it, yet."

"All right." His easy acceptance surprised her, and she peered at him in suspicion. "Well, what do you take me for, love? An ogre, to beat it out of you?" He winced after the words came out of his mouth, as if realizing that the selection of his words might not have been the most tactful.

"Actually, I was thinking more like a troll."

"Troll!" he snorted. "Don't be ridiculous! I'm far too devilishly handsome for that. I at least rate as good as one of the Faerie."

"You're certainly vain enough to be one of them," she laughed. "I think Cyclops fits best right about now."

He smiled, his lone uninjured blue eye shining with sudden warmth. "Now there she is again," he murmured, "your laugh." Suddenly uncomfortable, Emma shifted away from him and stood up. "Wait," he told her, "I want to ask you something."

A fluttery feeling began in her stomach. Emma crossed her arms over her abdomen, trying to smother it. "What?"

"I promised to take Melly into town tomorrow--"

"With that eye?" she said tactlessly.

He bit his lip, as if trying to hold back laughter of his own. "Well, I hadn't planned to develop a black eye when I made promise. And I don't want to disappoint her." 

"So where do I come in? Am I supposed to lead you around by the hand, acting as your eyes or something?"

"You could, love, but I was thinking more like coming with me for companionship. Or at least a change of pace from here."

She eyed him for several heartbeats. Ariel's words echoed through her head again. _Then maybe you need to spend some more time with Killian to figure it out. Get to know him. For both your sakes_. Emma frowned. "As...friends?"

"As whatever you are comfortable with," he answered. "No expectations, remember?"

Emma still wasn't sure she believed that. But there was only one way to find out if his words were genuine. "All right," she agreed, "if Melly doesn't mind."

"I'll talk to her in the morning," he agreed. "Let's turn in, love, and get some sleep."

"All right," she repeated, turning down the covers of the bed while he readied himself. She settled into the bed, pulling the blankets over her. Killian hummed slightly under his breath, the lilting, energetic notes of  a sea shanty. She listened with one ear, thoughts whirling together as she wondered if it would be so bad to sleep in his arms again. Would it keep the nightmares at bay again, or had that simply been a fluke?

"Killian?" she finally asked.

"Hmm?" he responded absently, turning off the bedside lamp. The room descended into darkness, and Emma stiffened for a moment, the memories of her nightmare rising to the forefront of her mind. Swallowing thickly, she felt the bed shift as he climbed into it.

"Nothing," she finally said, relaxing as the feeling of his presence on the other side of the bed soaked into her.  "Good night."

"Good night, Emma."

 

  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some brief Q+A, based on feedback: 
> 
> -How did Neal manage to rape Emma, being that she is a princess? 
> 
> Well, the short answer is that Emma knew Neal, and she trusted him. Most people aren't raped by strangers in real life, but by people they know. That holds true in this fic as well.
> 
> -Why does Eric know about the rape? 
> 
> Eric and Killian are old buddies from their days in the King's navy, and since Killian and Emma are honeymooning at the Westensees, that seemed like the sort of information that their hosts might need to know. Otherwise, they might inadvertently do any number of things to trigger Emma without even knowing it. If you'll notice, Eric makes a point to never touch Emma, never even offering her a handshake when they meet. Honeymooning at the Westensees affords Emma and Killian some privacy to adjust to their new situation, away from court gossips, and if the Westensees could really muck that up without meaning to, if they were ignorant of everything. 
> 
> -How and why does Killian, someone so much below her in station, end up married to Emma, apart from Emma needing to get married because of the baby? 
> 
> At this point, I can only say that there is an explanation, but it requires a conversation between Liam and Killian to uncover all of that, and that can't happen for the time being, seeing as they are still at the Westensees. It will come out sometime after they return home, but not I'm not certain of the exact chapter, yet.


	7. Chapter Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: One of my readers brought up a point regarding Charming's background, and how unfair it is for the Charmings to expect Emma to marry within nobility when Snow didn't. I thought it was a point well worth mentioning, although it will come up later in the story anyway.
> 
> For the purposes of this fic, though, David never grew up as a shepherd. He and James came from a noble bloodline on friendly terms with the King, so when their parents died, George adopted them and made them his heirs. Charming is still Charming in terms of personality, but his experiences are a bit different. 
> 
> And yes, James will make an appearance or two in this fic. How can he not?
> 
> Hope this helps clear up any confusion! Enjoy the chapter! It's a long one, but I think you'll rather enjoy it.

_The ballroom was quite hot, born from a combination of the many bright chandeliers lit overhead and the crush of bodies that swarmed around him, their words a dull buzz in his ears. Killian craned his neck a little, trying to see over the tops of people's heads. It wouldn't do to stand on his toes, but he was quite tempted, if it would help him find her. He hadn't seen her in months, not in person; but she had haunted his dreams, like a specter, when he slept, and invaded his thoughts, like a bloody siren,  as he worked. Liam had remarked on his distraction, the slight but noticeable decline in the quality of his work, and the faint circles that limned his eyes after a few weeks. Killian threw everything he had into his work after that, as if by running himself ragged he might forget her, as if by exhausting himself, he might slumber so deeply, she left his dreams._

_But Emma never did._

_A flash of golden curls caught his eye to the left, and his breath caught in his throat. He knew it was her, even before she approached him. Killian had long memorized the feel of her presence, the silent hum of energy that signified_ Emma _, when she was present. He clasped his hands together behind his back, assuming the bearing proper to a military office; it soothed his nerves a bit, helped him to focus the scattered pieces of his mind. How did she manage to do it, to shatter his self-control and make him feel as he were nothing more than an awkward boy again?_

_Killian bit his lower lip, his control wavering again as he watched the princess approach, the crowd parting to let her through. She was a vision, like something right out of the itself. Her dress was the color of sea foam, with gauzy, flowing sleeves and a square cut neckline that suggested, rather than displayed, the lovely breasts he was certain lay hidden underneath her bodice. A tiara studded with aquamarines and diamonds glittered from where it was nestled in her golden hair. "Lieutenant Jones," she greeted him with a smile, "you've returned safely, I see."_

_"I have," he agreed, when he recovered the power of speech. He lifted a gloved hand and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. "And in time for another celebration, I see."_

_"Indeed," she beamed at him, "how fortuitous." Her green eyes twinkled. "Perhaps you would do me the honor of a dance, then, Lieutenant? Since we are both stuck here, whether we will it or not."_

_"The honor would be mine, princess," he told her sincerely. Killian matched her graceful curtsy with a bow, and he slipped a hand around her waist. The silken fabric of her dress felt soft and smooth underneath his coarse, calloused sailor's hands. It was a stark reminder of the difference in their station, of the fact that he was not nearly good enough for her, could not give her the sort of life that she deserved._

_He swallowed thickly as she threaded her gloved fingers through his own bare ones, gazing up at him becomingly from beneath her golden-brown lashes. The fact that fate had cruelly dealt them such different futures stung his soul, but for tonight, it mattered not. He lead her onto the dance floor, memorizing every detail of her appearance, her smell, even the way she felt beneath his hands as he held her close. For these few precious moments, at least, she was his._

_They moved as one heartbeat while they danced, or perhaps it was simply his own fevered imagination. But though they moved as one couple among dozens in the ballroom, so far as Killian was concerned, it was only the two of them. Every person, every thing faded into insignificance while he held her. And soon, as he twirled her with the utmost care during the midst of their dance, they were as the only two people left on the whole of the earth._

_"I trust your journey was uneventful and your mission for my parents successful?" Emma inquired after a time._

_"Aye," he answered, admiring the golden curls that spilled across her shoulders. "And was your birthday celebration all that you hoped that it would be, princess?"_

_She smiled softly, a flicker of sadness in her green eyes. "No."_

_"And why is that, princess?"_

_"Because," she whispered,  wrapping her arms around his neck. Her fingers threaded through his hair, and he shivered as she pressed a kiss to his lips. "You weren't there."_

_The warm softness of her lips burned against his, setting him aflame. The hunger for her, his princess, his lovely Emma, that had always simmered beneath the surface, so carefully concealed, boiled over with ferocity, like an overheated cauldron. Killian pressed his body flush with hers, the length of his hardness compressing against her intimately, seeking by instinct the sweetness it sensed was ripe for the taking._

_The ballroom melted away in a blur, and the next thing Killian knew, he and the princess were both naked atop an ornately carved bed, locked together in a passionate tangle of arms and legs, as they moved together in a dance as old as time itself.  "Emma," he murmured feverishly, entering her with every bit of gentleness and care as he could muster, as if she were made of fine glass or porcelain. "Emma," he repeated, nuzzling his head into the curve of her neck. He cradled her in his arms and started to move, slipping in and out of her in a slow, steady rhythm. She cried out in a loud, unrestrained voice, and the speed of his thrusting increased. Months, he'd waited to see her again;_ years _he'd craved this, fantasized about lying with her--_

_A whimper interrupted his thoughts._

_"Emma?" Killian peered down at her with concern. "What's wrong?"_

_"Why?" she choked out, tears leaking down her reddened cheeks. "Why did you hurt me?"_

_Killian sat up swiftly. "You're hurt?" he managed in a shaky voice. He rolled off of her. "Where, love? Tell me?" He scanned her body for any sign of injury, and suddenly it wasn't Emma who lay next to him, but a shell of her spirited self. Bruises bloomed on her thighs right before his eyes, and he froze, unable to process the sight of them. Scarlet leaked onto the pristine white sheets, forever tainting them. He drew back with horror, running a hand through his hair. Had he done that to her?_

_"Why?" she croaked, trying to gather the shreds of her bloodstained gown to cover her lower half. Fear and loathing shone from her eyes like an ugly beacon. "I trusted you." Her expression was anguished, her accusation saturated with hurt and betrayal._

_"I--don't know," he whispered. "I didn't mean to. I--I wanted you, but not like this."_

_"Liar," she spat softly. "You're just like Neal."_

_"I'm nothing like Neal!" he shouted at her, punching the mattress in frustration. "_ You _kissed me, told me you missed me--"_

_"Miss you?" she fired back. "Why would I ever miss_ you _, a lowly, good-for-nothing lieutenant in my father's navy? You're not even worthy of that rank, you traitor! You said there were no expectations, that I could_ trust _you!"_

_"Emma," he begged, "Emma, please. I didn't mean to! I didn't know. I thought you wanted me, I thought--"_

_"I have_ never _wanted you!_ Never! _"_

_"All right," he said, defeated. "All right. I'm--I'm sorry. I--you're right. I shouldn't have--" He swallowed, struggling not to fall to pieces before her. He took a deep breath. "Can you forgive me for my sins?" Cold, hard green eyes stared up at him with loathing. "Emma?" he tried brokenly, "Emma, please!"_

Killian awoke with a start, sitting up in the bed, a pillow clutched between his arms. He patted his throat with one hand, breathing heavily. It was a dream? Killian would have laughed in relief if the backwash of his terror  wasn't still hitting him so hard. He shuddered.

"Killian?" Emma's muzzy voice said.

He turned to look at her, biting his lower lip as he hardened again at the mere sound of her voice. Shit. He wasn't surprised, after the dream he had had. It wasn't his body's fault that it was particularly sensitive to suggestion right now.  And her sleep-thickened, throaty voice was apparently quite suggestive to his nether regions.

It was damned inconvenient, though.

"Yes?" he managed, thankful that the pillow he still held in one arm hid the telltale bulge of his inopportune arousal from her view. He knew it was a circumstance they were bound to confront at one point or another.  Morning arousal wasn't uncommon, after all. Sooner or later, they would be forced to deal with that reality, along with whatever awkwardness and negative feelings it would likely provoke in Emma. But Killian was certainly not prepared to deal with that particular hurdle _this_ morning.

"What's wrong?" Emma sat up, blinking at him, her expression puzzled. Her blonde hair was a messy halo around her face, portions of it having escaped the confines of the braid she usually wore at night. His breath caught in his throat, strongly reminded of the many times he had seen her hair in just such attractive disarray after her morning ride. But it was her nightgown, the neckline of which hung open on one side, revealing a generous portion of her cleavage, the ties having loosened and unknotted in her sleep, which gave him the most trouble. He shifted restlessly, feeling his face grow hot and his groin grow even harder. Painfully so. Damn it.

"Nothing."

"Didn't sound like nothing," she argued.

He eyed her sidelong, careful not to let his gaze fall below her chin. "Emma," he said, hating the strangled sound of his own voice, "gown." She blinked at him in confusion. "It's open," he said huskily.

"Oh!" she said with embarrassment. He waited a few moments while she set herself to rights again. "Sorry."

Killian didn't know whether to laugh or cry. He wasn't sorry in the least. But he couldn't exactly tell _her_ that. She was already suspicious of his intentions, and he didn't want her to feel pressured. If she felt threatened enough to shut him out completely--

A sick feeling swept through him at the thought. He couldn't--wouldn't--let his own desires frighten her away. His mind flashed to the nightmare, and he flinched inwardly. Her friend. He needed to be her friend, someone she could trust. If she didn't ever want anything more than that, he would learn to cope as he had at sea, haunted by his thoughts of her; relieving his desires himself, while a lot less satisfactory, would have to be adequate. Anything to prevent himself from ever hurting her. Killian could not bear it, could not live with himself, if he ever did that.

He scrubbed at the nape of his neck with one hand, considering his current predicament. Killian had known, going into this arrangement, that it was never going to be easy; that he might never win Emma's trust or friendship, much less her love. But he wanted to. Oh, how he wanted to. If only--

"You always do that when you're nervous or embarrassed," her voice broke into his thoughts.

Killian blinked, gaze swinging over to her again. "I what?" He blinked in confusion.

"Rub the back of your neck or scratch behind your ear." Killian stared at her. A warm feeling swept through him and settled in his chest. It felt an awful lot like hope. "It's, um--it's something I've noticed," she finished.

"Ah." He licked his lips, unable to suppress the surge of disappointment that he felt ripple through him. It made sense, he reasoned. They were married now, and regardless of their relationship as it was at present, or what it might be in the future, they were bound to pick up on each other's idiosyncrasies, simply from living in such close quarters together. How foolish to let himself hope, even for just a moment.

"So--it was pretty bad?" He frowned. "Your nightmare?" she clarified.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. Killian couldn't tell her everything, even if wanted to. Still, they were talking. It was something that she was asking, wasn't it? That she wanted to know what was bothering him? He could not simply brush her off, when she was making a move, however tentative, toward friendship with him, toward some manner of intimacy between them.

Nor did he want to.

"Aye," he nodded. "I was--at a ball."

She snorted in amusement, her cheeks flushing pale pink, and her green eyes shining like emeralds. Killian's fingers twitched, the urge to tangle his fingers through her hair and kiss her until they both saw stars nearly irresistible. "Well, I can see how that might make you scream in terror," she snickered. "Seeing how you adore them as much as I do."

Killian blinked at her, chewing on his lower lip in confusion. She remembered?

"Still," she continued, "that can't be the whole of it."

"No," he agreed.

Emma tilted her head, studying him with a keen gaze. "And that's all you're going to say," she nodded to herself.

"Yes."

"All right," she answered with an easy acceptance that surprised him. He stared at her. Emma smiled bitterly. "I'm hardly the one to push someone to talk about things they're not ready to address yet," she whispered, her voice cracking with emotion.

Killian flinched. Had he been pushing her too hard? "Emma--"

She threw back the covers and climbed out of bed. "We're fine," she told him with a shortness of temper that was only softened by the half-hearted smile she flashed him over her shoulder. "Come on. We have a little girl we don't want to disappoint."

*

They left after breakfast, snow falling softly on the bare winter landscape as they piled into the carriage. Melly sprang in first, dark curls bouncing on her shoulders, and tucked herself into a corner of the carriage with an excited gleam in her eyes. Killian listened to her stutter and babble with enthusiasm from within, smiling with amusement. He looked over at Emma and offered her a hand to help her into the carriage. She slipped her hand into his, hitching her skirts up slightly as she climbed into the vehicle. She settled on the seat opposite of Melly. Killian followed after, sitting down next to Melly, who wasted no time in worming her way under his arm and regaling him with all the places she wanted to see once they reached town. He smiled down at her fondly, interjecting a comment now and then when she paused to take a breath, and chuckled to himself at her enthusiasm.

He glanced over at Emma, wondering what their child would be like. Would it be a girl like Melly, whom he could dance with and play tea time, or would she take after her mother and prefer archery and fencing and horseback riding? And what about a boy, to make mud pies with and track dirt into the palace, earning a sound scolding from Emma and the palace staff? Killian could teach him all about sailing, and perhaps one day see him enlist for service himself.

But no, that wouldn't happen, he realized with a frown. A crown prince would never be allowed to take up a profession that would unnecessarily endanger his life. A younger son, perhaps, might be given permission, but--

There might never be further children. It was a hurtful reality; one that was almost too harsh to face.

Killian's heart ached as he remembered his dream from this morning. So many times his slumbering mind had resolved Killian's return from those long three months at sea, after Emma's eighteenth birthday, with one happy ending or another; they were a sweet torture that Killian wasn't certain he would give up, even if he were offered the chance. Yet reality had invaded his dreams with a vengeance this morning, marring them with all of his deepest fears: that he might fail Emma, never give her the happy ending she deserved; that his desire for her might lead him to hurt her, make her hate him--

"Killian?" A light touch on his arm startled him from his thoughts. Emma sat back against her seat with a blink of her green eyes. "We're here." She watched him with a curious gaze, but made no effort to pry into his thoughts. Killian appreciated that more than she would ever know.

The door of the carriage opened, and the footman stood at attention outside, waiting to help them out. Killian waved him away after he exited--something that was fast becoming a habit--and extended his hand to help Emma out of the carriage. She shook her head with a smile and jerked her head toward Melly, who was bouncing  up and down on the cushioned seats of the carriage. Killian grinned. "Melly, my dear, you're going to wear out the cushions," he told her with a chuckle. He swung her out of the carriage rather than offer his hand, and she giggled.

"The toy shop!" she cried, hopping up and down on her feet, clutching at his coat imploringly. "Let's go to the toy shop!" She tugged on his arm as if to drag him away that very minute.

"Best to ask Aunt Emma what she thinks of the notion," he smiled down at her. "Perhaps she'd rather take you down to the marina and toss you in for forgetting your manners. Demands and impatience won't get you far, I'm afraid."

A snort issued from inside the carriage. Killian looked over his shoulder with a grin, and pivoted around to help Emma out of the vehicle. "So I'm the villain in all of this?" Her expression was grim, but her green eyes sparkled with mirth. "Is that how this is going to be?"

"Why, whatever do you mean, love?" He asked with a careful arch of his brow. Though his manner was light, every nerve was humming with optimism at the reference, however, vague, to the child they would raise together.

She opened her mouth to reply, but the words never left her mouth. Melly hurled herself at Emma's gold skirts instead, alternately apologizing and imploring her to come to the toy shop. "Please?" Melly said, tugging on Emma's hand. " _Please_ , auntie Emma?"

Emma stared down at Melly with a stunned expression. "I--I--" she floundered.  She looked up, and her green eyes met Killian's. He nodded at her in encouragement.  "Of course we can," she recovered with a crooked smile, "since you asked so nicely."

Melly beamed in response, and Killian sauntered over to them. "Ladies," he said with an exaggerated bow, "allow me the honor of escorting you to your destination?" Emma rolled her eyes in exasperation, shaking her head, but Melly giggled and clasped her hand tightly in his own. "Well, love?" Killian inquired with a smile, offering his other arm to his wife. She wound her arm around his without a word, and they set off through the town together, Melly amusing them with her chatter the entire way.

Mercer's Toy Shop was small, and decorated in hues of red and gold, trimmed with cream. Yet somehow, despite its diminutive size compared to many of the other stores that lined the main avenue of town, it managed to feel spacious than it actually was, despite the toys that crowded its shelves. Melly pounced on the wares displayed, moving from one item to another without hardly a pause, her hand wringing Killian's almost painfully in her excitement. "Easy, dearest," he told her with a chuckle, pulling his hand free. He shook it, trying to return sensation to it. "We've all day in town. No need to rush."

Selecting a stuffed grey bear off a shelf, Melly examined it for a moment, then placed it back in its proper spot. "I want to look at the dolls," she decided.

"At the rear of the store," the shop owner said helpfully, walking past on his way to retrieve an item for another small customer. "Let me know if I can help you find something in particular."

Killian followed Melly to the back of the store, where he was surprised to see Emma standing in a corner along the opposite wall, staring in fierce concentration at the toys on the shelves before her. She ran a finger across one of the toys; it was a ship carved out of burnished cherry, with crisp little sails made from linen, and handful of faceless carved figures that Killian surmised was its crew. He smiled to himself, tempted to purchase it for their own child, but Emma's reaction was not at all the same. Her forehead creased, and her shoulders bowed forward a fraction, atrophying into a minute slump. Killian observed her, growing worried, as she bit down on her lower lip to stop its trembling.

"Melly, dear," Killian said, turning away after watching his wife struggle in silence for a few minutes. It burned him, the inability to go over and comfort her. Yet there was no question that his duty was to Melly at the moment; she was simply too young to be left to her own devices, even for a few moments. If she were older, things would be quite different. But the fact remained that she wasn't.

He knelt down beside his goddaughter. "Which doll have you decided your mum can yell at me about purchasing you, then?"

The little girl shifted her gaze from a brunette doll with a mass of coiled black curls and a soft pink frock, to a doll with wavy red hair, large blue-green eyes, and a white calico print frock. "This one!" Melly decided after several minutes of indecision. She pointed to the red-haired doll. "It looks like mommy!"

"Clever girl," he grinned, patting her on the head with affection. "It would be terribly bad form for your mum to get mad at us when we were simply so heartsick for her company that we had to purchase a doll similar in appearance in order to cope."

A loud snort sounded from behind him. Killian peered over his shoulder. "Emma," he breathed, relieved to see that she appeared to be in better spirits.

"Do you really think that's going to get you out of trouble with Ariel?" she asked with a sardonic smile.

"Perhaps," he smiled. "For the doll, anyway."

Killian paid for Melly's new toy, arranging to have it delivered to the Westensee residence the next day, and the three of them left the shop a short time afterward. "Everything all right?" he murmured in Emma's ear as they meandered down the street to their next destination. "You seemed upset, back in the store."

She blinked at him in surprise, but Killian noted that she did not deny his observation. They walked next to each other in silence for a while, Melly being too preoccupied with the gentle snow falling around them to talk very much. Killian more or less forgot about it, assuming from her silence that she did not care to speak about it. So it was something of a surprise to him when Emma suddenly blurted out, "I was--I was thinking of the past."

Killian eyed her sidelong. "What of it?" he inquired gently. He guided Melly around a patch of slippery ice.

"Just...wishing things could have been different," she sighed. "I mean, if I had made different choices, would--would I be where I'm at now?"

He caught her meaning immediately. "I don't know, love," he answered quietly. "Perhaps not. But Emma, you speak of the past as if you had any control over what happened. As if you are responsible." He locked gazes with her for a moment. "I'll say it again, love: you're not."

She flushed, and her expression became vaguely uncomfortable. Even embarrassed. It was the first time either of them had dared reference her breakdown in his arms. Truth be told, Killian hadn't even intended to do so. But the words had tumbled out of his mouth with heartfelt sincerity just the same.

Emma looked away.

"I have my own regrets, love," he said, thinking in particular of all the times he might have taken a chance, told her how he felt, perhaps even prevented her tragedy. "Some of them rather large ones." Emma glanced at him curiously. "But whether it would have changed anything or not, lass, it does neither of us any good to let ourselves be consumed with guilt over tings we cannot go back and change; our decisions were made to the best of our knowledge and ability, under entirely different circumstances than now. Looking at the past through the lens of the present does little good when it comes to regrets."

"Like a magnifying glass?" Melly piped up.

Killian and Emma smiled at each other in amusement over her dark head. "Aye, lass," he agreed. "Just like a magnifying glass--finding a surface to be coarse where you once knew it to be smooth."

*

They visited quite a number of shops that morning, shamelessly spoiling Melly as they visited the clothier, the sweet shop, the book shop, and half a dozen other places besides. Killian was so exhausted from all the walking that he almost couldn't muster the energy to move again after they finished their lunch at the bakery. "Emma, love," he said slowly, watching her demolish her third chocolate éclair while Melly nibbled at her own desert, a small sticky bun with a cinnamon glaze, "why don't you rest here for a bit, while I take Melly over to the barber, as Ariel requested?"

"I'm fine," she protested.

He shot her a wry look. "Emma," he said in a low tone, leaning closer to her so Melly wouldn't overhear, "I'm almost dead on my own feet right now. You are carrying a child. You need to rest. I won't have you pushing yourself to the point of nearly passing out, again."

"All right," she grumbled, "fine. But we should head back when you're finished. The snow is starting to come down harder, and I don't want to be stuck in town overnight because the roads are too dangerous for travelling."

"Yes, love," he winked at her. "We'll be as quick as we can. I promise."

He set off for the nearby barber shop a short time later, with Melly in tow, carefully picking their way around the slippery patches of ice. His goddaughter hardly said a word the entire time, preferring to sulk instead. Ariel had warned him that her daughter loathed haircuts and was likely to put up a fuss, but that she drew the line at having her child resemble their sheepdog, Max. So off with her hair it was. At least some of it.

"Here, now, Melly," he tried to calm her when the barber walked toward her with a pair of scissors. She shrieked and tried to leap from the chair, but Killian gently pushed her back against the chair. "Be a good girl, dearest, and let this poor man trim your hair. There's nothing to be afraid of, sweetest. Really."

She eyed with heavy suspicion, and he sighed.

"Excuse me," he told the barber, plopping into a chair, "do you mind one more?" He gestured toward his own hair. "To show the lass there's nothing to be frightened of."

The elderly gentleman shrugged. "If you got the coin," he wheezed, "I got the time."

Killian chuckled. Succinct and quite mercenary, to boot. He decided that he rather liked the old man. Particularly since he didn't seem to give one fig or another _who_ Killian was, which allowed him to truly relax for the first time since they had departed from the Westensees that morning. "I think I can spare a bit more," he shot back dryly.

The barber grinned, revealing a mouth that was more gums than teeth. "Her highness chose well," he muttered with approval. Killian flushed a little, wondering at the remark, but unwilling to inquire about it further. Placing a cloth around Killian's neck, the barber eyed him critically. "How much?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"How much hair do you want trimmed?" He sized Killian up again. "You'd look a damned sight more authoritative without that ridiculous queue of hair."

Killian's hand flew to the familiar tail of his dark hair. "What, cut it all off?" he said in a shocked voice.

"Are you scared, Uncle Killy?" Melly asked with a tremble in her voice. A small hand reached over and patted him on the shoulder. "Me too."

Defeated by a four year old. He ground his teeth together, and the barber smirked. "All right," he sighed. "Cut it all off."

The barber cut and trimmed Killian's hair out over the course of several minutes, frowning every now and then as he reached forward to even out a lock of hair. Killian sat very still during the entire ordeal, hyper alert to Melly's wide, watchful gaze, and wondered what Emma would say when they returned. Would she be angry, or would she even care?

"Your face could do with a shave, too," the barber said after he finished Killian's hair.

"Strangely enough, I can't afford a shave," Killian told him brightly. "Just the two haircuts."

The barber laughed. "You're going to do just fine," he decided cryptically, patting Killian on the shoulder. "But a trim is in order, just the same. You're looking a bit ragged." He winked, grinning at Killian. "On the house."

Killian groaned, but he submitted to the barber. And left a large tip for him when they paid.

*

The silence in the carriage was deafening. Or so it seemed to Killian. Emma had hardly said a word to him at all, after they had returned to the bakery to pick her up. He'd explained the situation to her, stumbling over his own words as he waited for her reaction, but Emma had only stared at him with a flabbergasted expression in return. Disconcerted, Killian had settled into a flustered silence, save for the occasional word to Melly. But now the little girl lay slumbering on the seat opposite of them, a soft little snore-snort issuing from her lips, and there was nothing to fill the awkward quiet of their ride and serve as a distraction.

"Emma," he finally said, after they had been traveling for quite some time, "I didn't particularly want my hair cut, either. But Ariel would have my hide if I came back with Melly still looking as shaggy as Max. She was so frightened, I didn't know what to do. I--I acted impulsively. But," he sighed, "it will grow back in time."

"What?"

"My hair."

She issued him a strange look. "What if I don't want it to grow back?"

He blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

"It suits you," she said, peering out the carriage window. "Goes much better with that black eye. Makes you look like a pirate."

"Very funny," he grumbled.

She tore her gaze away from the window and flashed him a grin that was dazzling in its brilliance. Killian inhaled raggedly, drinking in the sight with a mixture of hope and longing. Emma shifted against him, and his pulse quickened as their arms brushed against each other. _Gods, you're acting like an adolescent, Jones,_ he berated himself.

"You surprised me, that's all. Lieutenant Jones has never struck me as the impulsive type."

"Wonderful," he sighed. He was boring.

"Look, I--I have something for you," she burst out, changing the subject lightning-quick.

"I don't understand."

Emma stood up, reaching for the shelf above their head, and Killian reached over to steady her against the jostle of the carriage, placing his hand on her waist. "Here it is," she muttered, sliding a lumpy package off the shelf. Killian helped her back into her seat, and she dumped the package into his lap with an expectant expression. "Open it."

Eyeing her quizzically, Killian opened the package carefully and discovered a colorful, striped tin beneath the plain brown wrapping paper.

"You said you had a sweet tooth, remember?" She shrugged. "Consider it a thank you."

"You don't need to thank me for anything."

"Oh, don't be a hypocrite," she huffed.

"Pardon?" he blinked at her.

"If I apologize too much, _you_ are too stubborn to accept a thank you." She shook her finger at him. "And don't deny it. I've been privy to too many state meetings where my parents sing your praises, to fall for that tripe. But I didn't figure you'd easily refuse something sweet, so--" She swallowed. "Consider it a thank you for--for everything."

Killian stared at her, and she gazed back significantly. _Oh._ He wasn't certain whether to chide her for feeling as if she had to thank him for doing what any other gentleman would have done, or to feel relieved that she was willingly acknowledging that night in some fashion.

Emma smiled at him uncertainly and gestured for him to open it. Killian obliged her. "Chocolate dipped almonds?" he said with surprise, removing the lid to the tin with a soft pop. "These are my favorite." Killian looked up at her in confusion. "How did you know?"

She shrugged. "Um, lucky guess, I suppose. And I like them, too, so..."

He passed her the tin of sweets. "Help yourself, love."

"I can't do that!" She tried to shove the tin back at him, but he lifted his hands above his head and laughed at her frustrated expression.

"Are you telling me that you're refusing chocolate?" he teased. "One of the few foods you've manage to keep down lately?" Her resolve wavered. Killian could see it in the subtle shift of her expression from determined to wistful. "We still have another hour or so left to our drive," he reminded her. "You're certain you won't get hungry?" He reached forward and picked two almonds out of the tin. He put them in his mouth and began to chew, making loud moans of delight.

"I hate you," she muttered in defeat.

Killian swallowed his food and chuckled. "Hate all you want, love," he said, reaching over to pluck the tin out of her hands. "But I've the tin now, so you'd best call a truce for the time being."

"All right," she agreed,  "truce."

The tin was empty by time they returned to the Westensee estate, and, much to their hosts' consternation, neither of them ate much at the evening meal.


	8. Chapter Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Well...the good news is that I reached 1,000 followers on Tumblr, so you get an earlier update than normal to celebrate that! I love and appreciate each and every one of you, whether you follow me on Tumblr or on FF, and I can't thank you enough for your kind words, encouragement, follows, favorites, and reviews. From the bottom of my heart, thank you!!!
> 
> That being said...this chapter is going to hurt. A lot. It's not at all the happy chapter I set out to write. Sorry about that. You'll get the happier chapter that I intended on writing, it's just...been delayed on account of angst.
> 
> Trigger warnings: rape, non-con, violence, vulgarity

"Quite the day, wasn't it?"

The familiar thump of his boots being cast onto the floor, one after the other, echoed in the still chamber. Emma hadn't spoken much since their return to the Westensee estate. The camaraderie of their ride back felt like a dream to her. A very frightening dream. That their day together in town didn't hold quite the same anxiety upon remembering it, she attributed entirely to Melly. The Westensees' young daughter had been a welcome distraction from Emma's usual gloomy thoughts, and had unknowingly served as a much-needed emotional buffer between Emma and her husband when she explained her sadness in the toy shop. The last time Emma had shared anything significant with Killian, he'd gotten in too far, seen her too vulnerable.

_He didn't take advantage of it_ , a voice whispered. _He was a gentleman._

_No, he wasn't. He'll just use it against you later_ , a harder, embittered voice argued. _He's just biding his time. Figuring out how to disarm you. Like Neal did. And then-- And then he'll--_

Emma paused in the midst of wrestling with her corset strings to steady her shaking fingers. Gritting her teeth, she all but growled to her husband in reply, "Yes, it was."

His mild reply floated over the collapsible privacy screen that separated them. "Something wrong?"

"No," she said tersely.

There was a long pause before he said, "All right. If you change your mind, I'll ring for a maid."

She ignored him, concentrating instead on returning her breaths to an even pattern. Pinching the bridge of her nose, Emma leaned against the wall behind her and closed her eyes. It was too much. This was all too much. She couldn't do it. No matter how kind he appeared, no matter how patient he seemed, he was a man. And one day, it wouldn't be enough to wait for her anymore. He would have enough. And take her whether she willed it or not. Just like Neal...

_"Emma!" Neal's familiar voice hissed through the darkness. Strong arms enveloped her, and she sensed rather than felt the smile that lit up his face. "You're here!"_

_"Of course I'm here," she murmured, burying her face into his neck and inhaling the scent of sandalwood and exotic spices that always emanated from him. She pulled away, smiling  at him, grateful that she could gaze squarely into his eyes, like they were equals. Most of the noblemen Emma encountered tended to be short-statured. Of course, given that Emma was taller than the average woman, their short stature was open to debate. Emma, however, felt that it was bad enough that she was forced to look down on men from a higher rank, sizing them up like cuts of meat in order to determine their potential suitability for marriage; she didn't want to perpetually look down on her future husband in literal terms, too. "You did ask me to meet you."_

_He removed his cloak and spread it on the lakeshore, gesturing for her to sit. Emma did so, re-arranging her skirts as modesty allowed. Neal joined her a moment later, wrapping his arm around her shoulder. She snuggled against his chest and peered up at the bright stars, content just to be near him. "The moon is beautiful tonight," she murmured. "If she could speak, I wonder what she would say. Would she whisper secrets to us about other lovers meeting under her pale countenance?"_

_He snorted, shifting against her. "You've been reading those books again. All that poetry is getting to your head."_

_"No," she frowned. "Just the one."_

_"The gift from your admirer," his voice rumbled in disapproval. "Why do you even still have that? We're together now; you don't need it. He better not keep sending you things now that we're engaged," he finished darkly._

_"Hmm, someone is jealous," she teased, pressing a kiss to his cheek._

_"You're my betrothed now, aren't you?" he replied, his expression serious and searching._

_She reached into her bodice for the ring she wore on a thin silver chain, hidden from view. "That is why I wear this."_

_"Good." His hands settled on her waist, and he pulled her toward him. His kiss was firm, even possessive, and it left her feeling more than a little puzzled. "Are you gonna keep the book?" he asked after they broke apart._

_"Why wouldn't I? It's a nice book. One of my favorites--"_

_Neal sighed heavily. "You read too much," he grumbled with a tinge of resentment. Emma gaped at him, unable to comprehend his words. "I mean, instead of poring over a bunch of stories that are never going to teach you anything or be useful in day to day life, we could spend more of our evenings like this," he said, sweeping his arm across the darkened lakeshore for emphasis. "Are you going to do that after we marry? Spend most of your evenings in some musty-smelling chair with a book that's older than most of the shoes I own?"_

_Emma rolled her eyes, well aware that Neal rarely wore the same pair of boots twice, being entirely too spoiled by his father, Count Goldberg. "Of course not," she reassured him. "But you know it would look suspicious if I went to bed early every night, instead of staying up to read. My maid would know something was up immediately." She brushed her fingers through the hair by his temple. "We should tell them, Neal. My parents will understand. Things are much calmer now, without the distraction of Regina's army on our doorstep. And they'll be thrilled I've found someone to care for that happens to be of suitable rank and background. You're Count Goldberg's_ heir _. They'll not say 'no' to the match."_

_"We'll tell them soon," he said after a short silence, "but I want a little more time having you to myself, first."_

_She giggled. "Isn't that why we're getting married? So you can have me to yourself as much as you want, forever?"_

_"Of course." He caressed her jaw line with one hand. "I want you now, Emma." He leaned in and crushed his lips to her throat with a pressure that was almost bruising._

_Emma tried to pull away. "Neal, what--?"_

_He kissed her neck again, the flurry of lips and tongue and suction overwhelming. He lowered her to the ground before she could get her bearings. "Emma, I need  you," he whispered, his eyes practically burning a hole through her bodice in their fever of lust._

_A hand grazed down the side of her left breast. She shivered, the sensation unpleasant. It didn't feel at all like the wonderful fire described in the books Neal so readily dismissed her reading._

_"Please."_

_"Neal, I--we've been over this. I want to wait. I want it to be special."_

_"You and me, we're special," he argued. "That's all we need."_

_"But our wedding night," she reminded him, her mind feverishly replaying the conversations they had had about not rushing the sexual component of their relationship. She had thought that Neal had reigned in his hormones out of respect for her, for her wishes. Their wishes. "Don't you want--"_

_He shook his head in exasperation. "You really think I'm going to go through all of that just to have you?" he demanded._

_"What?" Her heart gave a single hard thump of trepidation._

_"You don't have the legal right to refuse me anymore, being my betrothed. We're as good as married already."_

_"What are you saying?" she breathed in horror._

_He ripped open the front of her bodice with a sudden violence, his face a mask of anger. "I'm saying I didn't go through all those months of courting and pretending and giving you that old paste ring to pacify you, just to be refused again and again." Emma tried to sit up, to shove him away and run, but he shoved her down with a hard blow to her stomach, using his knee. Her shoulders slammed into the dirt, her head knocking into a sharp rock beneath her. Her vision blackened for a moment, confusing her._

_"...can't do this to me. Not anymore, you frigid bitch. You owe it to me. You're mine, not his."_

_Emma struggled to reassert control over her own body, to make her limbs work worth a damn, but her body had gone rigid with shock the moment he shoved her skirts up around her waist. Unsheathing the dagger he found strapped to her thigh, he chuckled malevolently and used it to rip through her undergarments. "Stop!" she screamed, powerless to do much else.  "Neal, stop it!"_

_"Shut up right now, or I'll slit your throat where you lie," he growled, pressing the tip of her own weapon into her neck. She felt a sharp sting, then a sticky, trickling sensation. He'd pierced the skin._

_Frightened, Emma could only lie there helplessly as he pinned her down with the weight of his body, but she jerked instinctively nonetheless when she felt his hand slide up her thigh toward her sex. Laughing darkly, he backhanded her across the face. "Hold still,_ princess _. Like a good slut."_

_Stars danced in front of her eyes, and Emma blinked several times, trying to clear her vision._

_"Do you fuck yourself when you read his book?" Neal demanded. "You do, don't you? That's why you won't get  rid of it; it gets you off, the idea of this stranger being hard and hot for you." Emma's skin cringed way from his fondling fingers, but it wasn't enough. There was no escape. No hope. Nothing but a strangling despair. "I can get you off, too." He leered at her, unlacing his trousers with one hand. "Better than he ever could. And you'll beg for more. Beg to suck the seed from my cock, to have me fuck you blind."_

_Emma whimpered as he forced himself inside of her. Pain. Indescribable pain. It coursed through her, as he stretched her unwilling body to accommodate him. Unable to bear the agony and humiliation a moment longer, Emma switched the conscious part of her brain off as he began to thrust with awkward, panting grunts; she retreated instead to the remotest corners of her mind, where she wrapped herself in the memorized lines and lyrical sweetness of words, the promise of freedom hinted at in a book of verse gifted by a stranger her only remaining comfort._

_Minutes or hours, there was no difference. No time. Just endless humiliation and pain that even memorized passages from her unknown admirer's gift could not completely blot out. But she clung to the words just the same. Clung to them, scrabbling by her very fingernails to maintain her own sanity. Found the courage to fight, the will to live...to not lose herself._

_A tug at her left hand brought her to full awareness again, and she whimpered at the full cognizance of pain that arrested her. Her body, stiffened with rebellion from the violent intrusion that had taken place, every fiber of her being protesting what had been done to her, even when she had no longer been able to form words, seized up all the more._

_A new kind of pain flared through her, wounding her in places no one could see, the damage far more extensive than anything that had been done to her abused body._

_Neal held up the ring that he had given her, eyeing it with distaste. "Suppose I'll have to get you a new one, now," he muttered with considerable reluctance. "With a real stone." He shook his head, standing up. Tucking his shirttails into his pants, he loomed over her, his once kind and gentle expression now transformed into one of irritation and disgust . "Won't do to have you wearing this paste one when I inform your parents of our betrothal."_

_"B-betrothal?" she breathed raggedly, her mind racing to catch up, decipher the meaning of his words, amid the overwhelming weight of emotions that threatened to crush her._

_He snorted. "That's what you wanted isn't it? What you've been nagging me about for months."_

_Nagging? She'd nagged him, when she'd encouraged him to come clean with her parents about their growing relationship? Because she hated keeping secrets from them?_

_"Never," she managed in the barest whisper. "Never m-marry you now."_

_Neal laughed. It was a chilling sound, utterly devoid of any humor or happiness. "What a naive little bitch you are. You're mine now. Ruined for anyone else. No one, not even your parents can take you away from me." He tossed the paste ring down at her. "Here. Take it in the meantime." The ring hit her square in the eye, bouncing into the grass, and she winced with a hiss._

_"F--fuck you," she spat, struggling to breathe amidst the panic that had a stranglehold on her._

_Chuckling, he squatted down next to her. She twitched, trying to shrink away as he stroked the hair back from her face. "You just did,_ princess _." He stood up, a corner of his mouth lifting in a mocking smile. "And I must say, you aren't even good at that."_

_Emma's breaths became uneven, almost too rapid to draw air into her lungs, and her ears roared with the buzz of his further insults, intermingled with a slew of vulgar assurances and suggestions about learning to please him in the marriage bed. Her fingers dug into the grass, scraping the dirt beneath it. Her fingernails burned with pain as dirt compacted beneath them. Sweat broke out on her forehead. She couldn't marry Neal and share his bed now. She couldn't. Wouldn't._

_"You won't. I won't," she babbled, barely even aware of the words tumbling out of her mouth, "He won't let you. He'll kill you--"_

_"Who? Your pathetic admirer?" Neal interrupted. "Don't be daft. If he really wanted you,_ princess _, he'd have said staked a real claim long ago. You're mine now, and you always will be. You belong to me, not some coward with balls too shriveled to approach a woman. Don't ever forget that."_

_And just like that, as he had done with her trust and her innocence, he shattered the last remnant of her faith._

Huddled in a heap on the floor, Emma struggled to reassert control over her spasming lungs. Nausea rolled over her in waves, and she clenched her jaw together, as if she could ward off the inevitable by sheer force of will. She clasped her hands over her ears, squeezing her eyes shut. _Make it go away. Make it go away..._

Strong arms hauled her off the floor from behind. "Emma! Emma, it's me," the vaguely familiar voice said. But the masculine timbre of the voice sent her into a further panic, and she fought like a wildcat, biting down on her captor's arm with savage force. Wresting free, she whirled around to attack, swaying on her feet as black spots appeared before her eyes.

"Emma, it's Killian," the voice grunted, capturing her again before she could hit the floor and escape into blessed oblivion, "the corset needs to come off, darling. You have to trust me."

The removal of her undergarment was the only thing that penetrated the fog that had wrapped itself around her brain. "N-n-no," she said. She couldn't bear it, couldn't bear to have another man's  lecherous fingers touch her ever again. Emma would rather die first.

She tried to wrest free, to slap him away, but the lack of proper air had taken its toll. "H-hate you," she managed as her surroundings became tinged with grey.

A heavy sigh sounded in her ears as he placed her on the bed. "Hate me if you must, then," he murmured, slicing through the stubbornly knotted laces of her corset with a knife. He pushed aside the damaged garment, warm fingers sliding across the skin of her back, and Emma shuddered with revulsion as she gasped proper breath into her lungs at last.

The clean, cool air cleared her thoughts, and she gradually became aware of herself. She flushed with shame when she realized that she'd bitten Killian, said such awful things to him. How could she ever face him again? She gathered the bed sheet around her bare torso and twisted around to peer at her husband. He stood several feet away, his gaze averted, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand, clearly as uncomfortable with the situation as she.

"Killian, I'm--"

"I'll go get Ariel," he muttered.

Emma watched him slip out of the room, his expression hurt and troubled, and felt something flutter to life inside of her, a longing she never thought she would ever feel again. A desire to take Killian into her arms and comfort him, to run her fingers through his hair and soothe his hurts. Even if she had been the one to put them there.

She buried the feelings. Pathetic adolescent crushes on naval lieutenants and unknown admirers be damned to the deepest bowels of hell. It was madness, the product of a fear-crazed, oxygen-deprived mind. If either of them had ever wanted her, they would have staked a claim a long time ago.

 


	9. Chapter Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Uh, yeah. This chapter didn't turn out at all like I expected. Nope. Better. For all the difficulties it gave me, I really think it turned out much better than anything I originally planned. Hope you enjoy it as much as I did! And thanks so much for reading, as always!

Killian's thoughts were a jumble. It had been nearly an hour or thereabouts since he'd left Emma, and still the hateful tone of her voice haunted him. _I hate you_. It didn't matter that the words hadn't been directed at him. (He wasn't fool enough to believe that.) They had echoed his nightmare, the fears that ate away at him like a weak acid, rather too closely. And so instead of doing the honorable thing and offering his wife his support and comfort, regardless of whether she accepted it, he'd done the most craven thing imaginable and fled to the Westensees' library--leaving her in someone else's care.

Bad form indeed. Liam would be ashamed. But not nearly as much as Killian was ashamed of himself. He'd lied to Emma. Lied to himself. He'd been a fool to think that he could simply detach himself from the situation, that he wouldn't let it affect him while he tried to help Emma. That he could simply turn off his own feelings for her, for what she was going through...from all that it was apparent she had _already_ been through, if her reaction to him this evening had been any indication. He felt like a selfish bastard, making any of this about himself or his feelings, but he hadn't been able to help it. He hated that he had had to fight Emma, to add to her trauma by touching her, uninvited, when she was in the midst of re-living a nightmare.

That he had done it to save her life, to get that gods-damned corset off of her so she could breathe properly, didn't lessen his guilt in the slightest. The last thing Emma needed was to be manhandled by... well, a man--the very type of person whom had hurt her so grievously to begin with. He should have sent for Ariel to begin with. Even a maidservant. But Killian had let his own feelings for Emma, not cool logic, take control. Seized by panic at the thought of losing his wife, his Emma, his _everything_ , Killian had simply acted without a second thought. Which perhaps hadn't been the best course of action, he now realized. He should have handled it differently, tried to soothe her, been more gentle. Anything but touch her unbidden and tear her corset open. The way that she'd reacted, the sheer terror in her eyes, the way she'd flinched at his barest touch when he tried to remove it...

No, maybe she hadn't directed her declaration of hate at him specifically, but how would she feel later when she became wholly aware of what he had done? Would she loathe him as much as he loathed himself?

It was a thought best drowned in liquor.

Killian sighed, reaching for the bottle of rum on the sideboard next to him. Pouring more of the amber liquid into a glass, he swallowed it into two large gulps. Really, it wasn't half bad, he realized, scrutinizing his empty glass as the liquid warmed his belly. No wonder his fellow sailors tried to smuggle it on board with them every time the Jewel set sail.

A knock sounded on the door.

"Go away," he called, pouring more rum.

The door creaked open anyway, and Eric shuffled in, shutting the door behind him. "I thought I might find you here."

"Because I'm so well-read?" he smiled sarcastically.

"If by well-read," Eric said, settling onto the settee next to him, "you mean having a penchant for reading philosophy while drunk...then yes."

"It makes more sense when I'm drunk."

"Can't argue with that," his mate nodded, propping his feet up on a small footstool. "Pour me one? Killian hauled himself up with effort, his movements clumsy, and Eric whistled. "I didn't think you'd be this far gone, yet. What exactly happened?"

Selecting a clean glass, Killian focused on pouring Eric's drink without spilling too much of it, while he tried to decide how to answer. He wasn't certain how much he should reveal. Aside from the fact that he didn't want to breach Emma's privacy, to make her feel further exposed and violated, Killian didn't rightly know how comfortable _he_ was with revealing such intimate details about himself or his marriage. Eric was his best mate; they had been through a lot, survived and shared many things with each other. But there were just some things you didn't share with anyone but your spouse. And everything that had passed between him and Emma tonight, no matter how painful, was one of those things.

"Oh, you know," he tried to play off in a casual, offhand manner, "just another misunderstanding."

"Some misunderstanding, to have  you this inebriated this fast," Eric observed, accepting his own glass of the liquor.

Killian sighed. "Better leave this one alone, mate," he warned in a quiet, but firm tone.

"All right," Eric finally said, after giving him a considering look, "fair enough. I can respect that." He leaned back, taking a drink of his rum. "She's all right, though?"

"As much as she can be, I suppose." He collapsed onto the settee again, staring at the wall of books across from him. Volumes of varying sizes and colors lined the shelves that stretched from floor to ceiling, many of the titles illegible as much from the peeling gold print as from the sheer distance from where he sat.

"You sent for Ariel?"

"Yes."

"That's good. They seem to get on well enough. Maybe she can help sort things out."

But Killian wasn't certain he _wanted_ Ariel to help Emma sort anything out. That was his place, his job. Emma was his wife, and he her husband. These were their own problems to sort through together. And it killed him that they didn't seem capable of doing that. They wouldn't be at the Westensees forever. What was going to happen when they returned to the palace, with all its opportunities to become consumed with the work of running a kingdom? Avoiding any real, meaningful conversation with each other would be all too easy, if they chose to take that route. 

Like they were avoiding it now. His fault.

Killian inhaled, pinching the bridge of his nose. "How do you and Ariel do this?"

Blinking in surprise, Eric peered over at him with a curious expression. "Do what?"

"This...any of it. All of it." Killian swept his hand through the air in front of him. "Marriage."

He snorted, swishing the rum around in his glass. "When I figure it out, I'll let you know."

"I'm serious."

"So am I." He sighed, taking a drink. "Look, I can't tell you how to make you and Emma work. I only know how to make me and Ariel work, because I know who I really am, and I know who Ariel really is, deep inside. And that helps me to know who we are together."

"Wonderful," Killian muttered. "That's helpful."

"True, though. You have to find your own way, Killian."

"And I'm doing such a wonderful job of it."

Eric finished his drink in one large gulp. "Actually, with the issues you're both facing, I'd say you're doing a hell of a job so far. Better than I'd manage." He thumped Killian on the shoulder and stood up. "I don't know what happened, but you need to stop beating yourself up about whatever wrong you think you've done. I know you, Killian. I'm sure it's not as bad as you think. And if it is..." He set his empty glass down on the sideboard. "...Emma will forgive you."

"You sound pretty bloody certain about that for someone who doesn't even know what happened."

He shrugged. "Just a hunch," he said with his trademark smile. "See you in the morning, Killian."

The prince left the library without another word, and Killian slumped against the arm of the settee. Eric was right, he thought, sipping at his rum again.  He and Emma needed to find their own way. Wasn't that the very reason he had hesitated to disclose the details of what had happened between him and Emma tonight? Killian wanted to reach a place with Emma where they could rely on each other, face problems together. _Trust_ each other. But the possibility of these desires becoming reality seemed as remote as apprehending Neal, right now.

He took a deep breath.

Running away tonight hadn't helped matters. Certainly it wouldn't show Emma that she could rely on him to be there for her, no matter the cost to him personally; that she could trust him with even the ugliest, most broken parts of herself and what had been done to her. Perhaps leaving her with Ariel hadn't been wrong, per se. Maybe it had even been the wisest course of action, all things considered. Compartmentalizing his own emotions clearly wasn't working out well for either of them. If Killian was going to make this work with Emma, to earn her trust and her friendship, he needed to embrace how he felt about her, rather than trying to ignore it or pretend that it wasn't going to affect their relationship with each other. Even if she never knew how he really felt, the reality of it was that his feelings for her colored how he related to her, down to the smallest thought or action.

What was it Eric had said? he wondered, tilting back the glass of rum to swallow its last drops. Knowing who he was and who Ariel was helped him to know how they were together? Perhaps that was where he'd gone wrong. Killian had been trying to deny an essential aspect of himself, hoping to spare himself the pain of eventual rejection if Emma ever discovered how he felt. And the way he felt about her, the way Emma made him feel about himself, wasn't born out of simple attraction, no matter how strong. He _loved_ Emma. Had loved her for years. And because of that love, he realized, she had the power to hurt him to a far greater degree than anyone else he knew.    

It was this denial, the knowledge that she could hurt him as much as he feared hurting her, that stood in the way and kept Killian from the self-awareness he needed in order to be the sort of man Emma could rely on under any circumstance. Emma could hurt him. _Had_ hurt him. Because he cared for her more than life itself. And she would hurt him still further, for Killian wasn't fool enough to believe that there wouldn't be many more setbacks throughout their journey together.

He needed to hurt. For himself, for her. With her. Pain was part of the journey, too. Ignoring that, trying to help Emma heal without acknowledging this reality, was a mistake. It was the equivalent of trying to set sail without weighing anchor first

Killian would do anything, even endure the worst manner of torture imaginable for his Emma. But he couldn't simply let himself become a martyr, either. If Killian was going to truly help her, to be the sort of friend and husband that she needed, he couldn't let his own wounds consume him. To help Emma heal, maybe even to trust again, he needed to take care of himself, too. Something he'd been neglecting.

He set his glass aside.  "And you can start by sobering up," he mumbled to himself. Most of the servants would be abed by now, and Killian doubted his ability to walk all the way to the kitchens without passing out, much less prepare any coffee that was worth a damn. He pried himself out of the comfortable depths of the settee shuffled over to a small desk where an oil lamp was burning. Leaning over, he blew it out.

_Sleep it off_ , he thought, returning to the settee. He wasn't about to return to the chamber he shared with Emma in this condition. It might only frighten her more, give her the wrong idea. _Just sleep it off_ , he thought again with a sigh, lying down. He slung an arm over his face, blocking out the moonlight that streamed in through the window above him.

There would be time to fix it all tomorrow.

*

Killian started awake with a grunt. Disoriented and feeling as if he had been trampled by a team of horses, he stared at his surroundings in the pre-dawn light, confused. He sat up, rubbing his eyes, and tried to clear his aching head. A scratch sounded against the library door, and he froze, staring at it in consternation. Who would be up, trying to sneak into the library at this time of the night? One of the servants, attempting to steal from the Westensees? The only thing of value they might hope to find in the library would be--

The knob rattled, and Killian rolled off the couch. "Who's there?" he called, reaching behind one of the bookshelves for the cutlass Eric stored there. "Show yourself."

The door creaked open, and Emma stood in the doorway, a large grey shawl wrapped over the shoulders of her nightgown. She stared at him wordlessly, her expression uncertain. Killian exhaled with relief. "Emma?" he said softly. "What are you doing here? You shouldn't be wandering around the manor at such an hour," he frowned. "Certainly not alone."

"I couldn't sleep."

Killian smiled to himself. Of course she would seek out the nearest library when she was restless or troubled. Belle's influence. He should have known.

_The dim, grey-toned rays of pre-dawn light streamed through the palace windows, and Killian hummed to himself as he strode down the empty, quiet corridors, filled with purpose. The queen had entrusted Liam and Killian with a new mission the day prior, and the Jewel and her crew would set sail for a new land in a mere week's time. Liam had already plotted a course, using the maps in his quarters, but he lacked a detailed map of the country itself, and had tasked Killian with searching the palace library for a map they might peruse for their journey._

_Removing the key from his trouser pockets, Killian slid it the keyhole and turned it with a click. Pushing the door open a moment later, he stowed the key the queen had given to Liam, and walked into the room. The smell of leather and parchment greeted him, and he inhaled it with a bemused smile. Peering at his surroundings with fondness, Killian wandered through the library at will, soaking in the quiet atmosphere for a few moments before he returned to business._

_"Looking for something?" a familiar voice inquired._

_Killian froze, his heart beating rapidly. He would know her voice anywhere. Licking his lips, he pivoted on his heel and turned to face the princess. "Your Highness," he greeted her, bowing at the waist. Rolling her eyes with a snort, she pushed up off the chaise-longue where she'd been reclining, and walked over to him, her pale pink skirts swishing in a manner that mesmerized him. Killian found himself wondering what beautiful limbs must be hidden beneath the skirt, and felt his face heat up. Scratching behind his neck with one finger, he cleared his throat. "You're up early, princess."_

_"Or I never went to sleep at all," she smirked with a lift of her brows, crossing the room to stand next to him._

_"What?" he said with an uncomprehending blink. "You must be exhausted." He reached for her without thinking, forgetting himself for a moment, until her eyes traced the length of his arm to her shoulder. Embarrassed, Killian withdrew his hand. "Your pardon," he murmured, averting his gaze. An awkward silence settled between them._

_"So what are you looking for?" she asked after several uncomfortable moments._

_He shot her a curious gaze. "How do you know I didn't come here to steal something?"_

_She rolled her eyes. "I didn't realize thieves were in the habit of using keys to break in," she drawled in such a sarcastic manner that it sparked a grin from him._

_"Point taken," he said softly. "As it happens, Liam sent me to find a map for our next journey." He watched her process this, her expression becoming thoughtful, and he wondered what had driven her to seek refuge in the library, disturbed her enough to prevent her from getting a proper slumber. "Your pardon for being so bold, Your Highness, but...why are you here at this hour?"_

_Emma considered him for a moment, and when she spoke, Killian had the sense that she was choosing her words very carefully. "I have a decision to make."_

_"It must be quite a decision to weigh on your mind enough that you can't sleep," he observed._

_"It is," she agreed, gazing at him with a grave expression. She shifted closer to him, and Killian fought the impulse to pull her into his arms and soothe away her troubles, if only for a short time. "It may affect the course of my future."_

_Killian's mind flashed to the ball the Charmings had held two nights ago. Ostensibly, the ball had been held to further diplomatic relations with other kingdoms, but Killian knew it for what it really was mere moments after his arrival, when he'd spied the way the majority of males in the room seemed to be assessing Emma, or trying to outright charm her. A suitor ball._

_It shouldn't have surprised him. He'd known it was coming for years now, and her nineteenth birthday had been last month. Emma was legally eligible for marriage now, by the kingdom's standards. But the reality had hurt more than Killian had imagined it would, and he'd withdrawn from the ball quietly at the first opportunity._

_It was the first ball Killian had ever attended in Queen Snow's kingdom in which he hadn't danced with Emma._

_"Well," Killian said, clasping his hands together behind his back. He couldn't afford another slip in propriety. Emma would surely ascertain his feelings, and that might make things terribly awkward in the future, particularly when she chose a suitor to wed. If she hadn't already._

_"Perhaps we are both in need of a proper guide to plot a course for our next journey," he replied lightly._

_Emma smiled. "You've experience in that, haven't you Lieutenant?" she inquired, her green eyes studying him with intense interest._

_Killian licked his lips, his breath hitching at the innocent question. "Aye."_

_"So maybe we could help each other out. You need the map to Atlantis, and I need--"_

_He blinked. "I beg your pardon? How do you know that?"_

_She sighed. "I know where you're going and why, because...because I recommended the Jewel and its crew for the journey." He raised an eyebrow, and she rushed on, "It's a good four months journey, there and back, and I wouldn't normally wish you or any of your crew away from their home and families for so long, especially after just returning from an extended mission, but..."_

_"Yes?" He frowned. "Princess, whatever it is, please speak freely."_

_"My mother is ill," she whispered. "It isn't noticeable now, but the physician says it's progressive, and there's no cure." She paused, as if choosing her words carefully. "That's why we're sending you. The cargo you're to retrieve is magical. It's all been arranged through a man named Rumplestiltskin; there's a fruit whose nectar can be distilled into an unguent that, when applied to the skin of the affected muscles, will keep the symptoms of her disease and its progression at bay. But she will need to take it every day for the rest of her life, or the symptoms will return. Possibly worse than before."_

_"I don't understand," he exhaled. "Your parents said the cargo we've been sent to trade for was part of establishing new diplomatic relations with Atlantis."_

_"That's true enough," she admitted, "since it's important to have good relations with the Atlanteans if we're to trade for this unguent for years to come. But that's not the full truth of your mission--only what my parents wanted you to think," she sighed. "They don't want to risk word of my mother's illness getting out. We fear--"_

_"Regina," he breathed. "You're worried she will take advantage of the situation, seize upon your mother's weakness and take the kingdom."_

_"Yes."_

_Grasping his hand in one of her own, she gazed at him earnestly. "Please, Lieutenant. The Jewel is our fastest ship in the navy, and its crew our most dedicated. But no one knows the real mission, not even your brother. You mustn't breathe a word, even to him."_

_"Your secret is safe with me," he assured her. "But why tell me now? Why not leave me in ignorance?"_

_"Because despite what my parents believe, someone needs to know the import of this mission. That cargo cannot be allowed to be lost or taken by force."_

_"I will guard it with my life," he told her earnestly."But," he said, hating himself for giving voice to such a harsh reality, "what if it's too late by time we return?"_

_"Then I become queen sooner than any of us imagined," she said with a confident air, as if she were fully prepared for the possibility, despite the worry that was evident in her emerald eyes. "Father has no real claim, despite their joint ruler-ship all these years. His title as King is a courtesy, an acknowledgment of his own noble birthright, not a reality. He gave up his chance to real kingship when he conceded the throne to James in order to marry my mother and settle here. Our law is very clear: all rulers of the Enchanted Forest must be able to trace a line of kinship to the royal family by blood--not marriage." Emma frowned. "Perhaps he might function as regent, if I were  younger, but being of legal age..." She trailed off, biting her lower lip._

_Killian watched her, trying to process the complicated tangle of thought and emotions that Emma's confiding in him had evoked. He felt honored that she had shared her troubles with him, yet his worries for the future of the Enchanted Forest dispelled any real pleasure he might have felt otherwise. The harsh reality of it was, even if Emma ascended the throne, Regina would view the kingdom as easy pickings, with such a young and untried ruler. Preserving the queen's health was as crucial for its political expediency as it was Killian's own personal affection and concern for his ruler. But above all, Killian wished to spare Emma the pain of watching her mother waste away in a drawn out struggle against death, as he had watched his mother go through, so many years ago._

_"I am honored to serve you," he told her quietly, "regardless of your position."_

_"Good," she said with a wan smile. "Follow me."_

_The princess led him through the library, past a great many bookshelves that bowed under the weight of the sheer volume of books they held (Killian was almost surprised they didn't groan from the strain), to a small study that he recognized as belonging to Emma's tutor (who was, not coincidentally, the royal librarian) Belle. Retrieving a key from her bodice, Emma slid it into the lock on the door. Killian flushed scarlet and looked away, trying to rein in the surge of lust which followed._

_Emma opened the door and walked into the little study with confidence, lighting lamps and moving through the room as if she owned the place. Which, he realized with chagrin, she did, when all was said and done. Still, Killian felt uneasy, as if he were intruding upon the pretty tutor's privacy._

_"Are you coming in?" Emma inquired with an arch of her brow as he hesitated in the doorway._

_"Should we be in here, lass?" he asked, shuffling into the office. "Perhaps we should return later, when Mistress Belle is available." He joined her by the desk, and Emma turned to face him. Suddenly aware of how close they were, crammed into this small study, he swallowed slowly and tried to re-focus his thoughts on the task at hand._

_"Belle knows." He blinked at her in confusion, and she continued, "My parents hired her to research for them, in the beginning. She didn't turn up anything directly useful, but..."_

_"She found the man who did have a solution. This Rumplestiltskin," he finished for her._

_Emma nodded. "She contacted him for us and set up a meeting. Which brings us to now."_

_The princess stepped closer, their bodies mere centimeters apart. The familiar scent of heather and foxglove inundated him, and he exhaled with a shudder. He shifted his gaze down to her own green one, unable to help himself, and found Emma watching him with an impish grin. Killian's heart began to beat erratically. She surged up on her tiptoes and leaned toward him, her hands clasping around his shoulders. Killian shivered as the wealth of her golden hair brushed against his neck, her weight settling against him as her chest pressed against his own. Shifting his center of gravity slightly, his hands moved of their own accord and settled on either side of her waist, steadying her as she reached over his shoulder and plucked something off the bookshelf behind him._

_Emma shifted, pulling back to gaze at him as her arm wrapped around his neck. Their noses brushed, and Killian stilled, hardly daring to breathe. They watched each other for the space of several heartbeats, neither of them pulling away, and Killian felt a flicker of something ignite in him. Something that felt an awful lot like hope. "Princess?" he said in confusion, his voice scarcely audible._

_His words were like bucket of cold water. Emma blinked, slipping free from his grasp. "Your map," she said breathlessly. She held it out to him, her gaze averted in embarrassment._

_Killian flushed, accepting the rolled up map. Of course._

_"My thanks," he murmured, rubbing the back of his neck. He followed Emma out of the study and waited while she re-locked the door. Remembering the bargain Emma had made with him, he cleared his throat after she finished. "Well, then, Your Highness," he said, "how may I be of further service to you?"_

_"But you're already being of service, K--Lieutenant," she said. "I don't need anything else, except-" She hesitated._

_"What is it?"_

_"Please, just..." She looked away, clearly overcome by emotion. "Whatever happens," she whispered, "come back safely."_

_"You have my word," he promised--foolishly, he knew. Killian knew better than anyone the dangers of sea voyages, particularly long ones. Anything could happen. To him, to his crew, to the cargo. And yet, Killian found that he could not refuse Emma anything. Even foolish assurances of the safety of his crew and the success of their mission. He would do anything, go to the end of the world for her. Or time. It didn't matter. So long as Emma needed him, he would be there for her. "Emma," he began, his emotions overcoming his good sense as he was filled with the need to confess everything, damn the consequences._

_She yawned loudly, effectively stemming the flow of words that had been ready to pour out of his mouth. Emma clapped a hand over her mouth in embarrassment. "Forgive me, Lieutenant, but I think my weariness has caught up with me at last."_

_"Let me escort you to your room," he offered._

_"No," she shook her head, "I'll be fine."_

_And before he could object, she swept past him and left the library. Killian watched her go, a feeling like regret settling into his bones, even as he realized it was probably for the best. Emma wasn't his. She never had been._

Killian considered his wife as the memory faded. He hadn't wanted her to see him like this, completely disheveled and still half-inebriated. He'd wanted to give his apology when he was sober, and able to select his words with more care. And he certainly didn't want to have such a serious discussion when his head was pounding and he felt like all kinds of hell to begin with.

"Emma," he began hoarsely, "You need rest. It's not good--"

"I know, it's not good for the baby to have so little sleep," she sighed, her features becoming irritated and sullen.

"Actually, I was going to say that it wasn't good for you," he corrected patiently, earning a surprised look in return. "I've no idea whether it would affect the baby."

"Oh." She looked chagrined. "I'm sorry.  It's just, I'm not..." She hesitated, as if uncertain of herself.

"What is it?"

"You were concerned for _me_?" she said in an odd tone.

He blinked. "Does that surprise you?"

"Yes," she admitted, her expression weary and saddened. "After what I said earlier, I didn't expect--" She took a deep breath. "I'm sorry," she apologized, her expression reflecting shame and embarrassment. "I didn't know it was you," she whispered.

Killian stepped closer to her with a sigh. "I know." He smiled at her sadly. "And haven't we been over this enough? You've no need to apologize to me for something that couldn't be helped. I'm not going to hold your instincts against you, lass." He held out a hand, reaching for her by instinct, and then stopped, his hand hovering over her head, uncertain how his touch might be received, particularly after what she'd already been through earlier this night.

But to his complete astonishment, Emma locked gazes with him and nodded once--slowly, deliberately, giving him permission.

Exhaling with a mixture of relief and elation at this small sign of progress, Killian lowered his hand, his fingers trembling a little as he stroked the silken mass of her golden hair. "Truth be told, love," he told her after he recovered the power of speech, "I'm glad you fought back."

"You mean you're glad I bit you?" she said skeptically.

"Well, I didn't say that," he grinned, and they both snickered. "But I promised you before that I would never force myself on you, Emma, and tonight I did, in a way. The context was different, perhaps, but I did resort to force nonetheless, and for that--" He took a deep breath. "For that, I'm very sorry."

She tilted her head, considering him with a slight smile. "Hypocrite."

"What?"

"If I shouldn't be sorry for reacting as I did, then neither should you. I'm not going to hold your instincts against you either, Killian. You didn't harm me; you saved me from suffocating in that damned corset. There's nothing to be sorry for."

"Not even for leaving you afterward?" he murmured.

Her expression became unhappy. "Why should you have stayed, after what I said? Instincts, Killian," she reminded him again. "Neither of us were quite ourselves. Let's leave it at that."

"As you wish." Killian withdrew his hand, glancing out the window. "The staff should be up before long, preparing for the day. We could send for some tea. In the meantime," he nodded at the settee, "would you like to help me pass the time while we wait?"

Emma looked surprised for a moment, then nodded. "Only if I get to choose the book," she informed him with an impish smile.

Killian gestured to the wealth of books that surrounded them. "Whatever the lady desires."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: And there you have it. A much happier chapter than I had planned. I'd anticipated more angst, but then the flashback happened, with the revelation of Snow's illness, which was a twist I didn't expect at all. But I really think that's going to enrich the overall plot down the line, when certain other things are set into motion. I cannot wait! 
> 
> And the ending...the ending evolved into something so much better than I expected. And it was all Emma. All her. She surprised me as much as she surprised Killian, and I am so happy because that was some solid progress for her, right there.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Here it is, an update for this story! Thank you so much to everyone who was so patient in waiting for this, while I dealt with some extenuating personal circumstances that necessitated taking a break from this fic for a while. This is only about half of what I wanted to write for this chapter, initially, but I decided to save their picnic for the next chapter, where I can focus on their conversation in a way that does that moment justice.  
> I hope you enjoy this chapter!

Emma woke early the next morning, despite the little sleep she had managed to get the previous night. Her body had long since attuned itself to waking in the grey hours of the morning, in order to fit a morning ride or some other personal activity into her schedule, before the barrage of tutors and meetings that filled a typical day. Now that she had the leisure to sleep longer, however, Emma often found herself unable to quiet her mind to take advantage of it. The changes in her life were overwhelming, and so rapid, that Emma often felt like a stranger to herself. Neither her marriage, nor the child growing within her, felt real yet. And although she was increasingly confronted with their reality, she felt disconnected and confused. Lost.

And she didn't even know whether she wanted to be found again.

_Emma couldn't have said how long she had lain the dark, shivering and wishing that Neal had simply used her dagger to put her out of her misery. It might have been hours, or mere minutes, but it felt like a lifetime. Neal had taken his leave some time ago, smirking in satisfaction as he slipped the paste ring onto her hand, like a brand for his prized mare. He knelt to kiss her on the cheek, and she stiffened, her breaths becoming uneven again. Fear drowned out many of his words. Words Emma no longer wanted to hear. But some of them sank in however unwillingly her psyche resisted, and she felt the hopeless despair of a caged animal when she pieced together that he meant to seal their betrothal at the earliest opportunity._

_She took comfort in the sounds of the nighttime forest after he left, wrapping it around herself like an impermeable blanket. The worst had already happened to her; no beast of the forest or imagined spook of the night could frighten her now.Therewas only the scent of the earth and pine, herself, and the glowing, pregnant companionship of the moon. If Emma could have dissolved into the earth, shed her awareness altogether, it would have been a relief._

_But the humiliation and pain that permeated her being, far from offering an escape, drove her mind into hyperactivity. Her sanity hung by a thread as the throbbing between her thighs crescendoed. She shivered again, trying to rearrange the shreds of her skirt to cover more of her body, but the stickiness of blood and seed that stained her thighs and abdomen glued the fabric to her body, making it a more difficult task than she had anticipated. Her hand brushed against the drying evidence of her violation, as she rearranged her tattered gown, and Emma snapped. She struggled to a sitting position, her breaths shallow and uneven.   With fingers stiff from the cool air, she clawed at the earth, possessed by the single-minded need to eviscerate every last trace of Neal from her body. Her finger nails burned as dirt was pushed beneath them with great force, but Emma was only dimly aware of this new and insignificant pain. Hands clenched around a meager smattering of dirt, she scrubbed it against her stained skin, sobbing and vomiting in equal measure._

_Over and over, she scoured herself with dirt, in a desperate attempt to rid herself of the soiled feeling left on her skin from the attack, until at last she sank back to the ground in a heap. Tears trickling down her face in slow, sticky tracks, Emma stared up at the moon with tired eyes.Yes, the forest could do her no harm. Better the company trees and insects, and even the most feared and savage of beasts than a man. At least a wolf might have put her out of her misery altogether, rather than leaving her wounded and completely broken. There was little subterfuge in the animal kingdom; it operated with a brutal honesty, and clear rules. You could trust an animal. But not men. So many lies, so many secrets. Never the truth, never an honest admission of intentions or feelings. Only evasiveness and empty words. Illusion._

_But there was never any doubt about where you stood with animals._

_A wolf howled in the distance, and Emma felt wistful as she listened to the last, mournful notes fade into the forest. She wanted to disappear, to ebb away into nothingness, as the wolf-song had. Never to feel pain, or shame, or fear._

_Never to be found and hurt again._

Killian stirred next to her in the bed, and Emma roused herself from the memory. She felt a surge of guilt and embarrassment at hurting her husband again. His reassurances that she had reacted out of instinct did little to comfort her. Far from it. She hated that she had no control over herself, over her whole gods-damned life anymore. It shouldn't be like this. And regardless of the circumstances of their marriage, no matter what conflicting feelings surged through her at any given moment, Killian deserved better than to be treated so poorly. She knew it--knew as objective, intellectual fact--that he was nothing like Neal. Yet subjectively, _emotionally_ , she simply couldn't reconcile her thoughts with all the turmoil and suspicion she felt. Killian hadn't married her of his own free will, after all. Her parents had bribed or coerced, perhaps even ordered, him into marrying her, in order to save her reputation. What they had offered him, or what he expected from Emma in return, she had not the faintest idea. But he certainly had not entered into this marriage of his own free will any more than she had. And no matter how kind he was, it simply didn't change the fact that part of her resented him for consenting to the marriage her parents had arranged.

But then, she had consented, too. What choice had she really had? No matter how much her parents had smothered her with their assurances of love and support, despite her difficult situation, Emma knew that even they would not be able to shield her from the social snubs and sharp fragments of gossip that would plague her once everyone learned of her unwed pregnancy; and while the scandal of an unwed pregnancy might die down eventually, Emma was practical enough to realize that the rumors would haunt her for years to come, tainting all of her diplomatic efforts and alliances, and lowering her in the eyes of other rulers. Her subjects would suffer by association.

Accepting Killian's proposal had been the logical choice, both for herself and her future subjects.

"Emma?" Killian's soft, sleepy voice interrupted. "Are you all right?"

She blinked, shifting slightly in the bed, and peered over at him. He watched her, his expression concerned and curious, but didn't press further when she muttered a denial. "The sun is out today," he told her, changing the subject. "Perhaps we could take our tea outdoors this afternoon."

"Like a picnic?" Her brow furrowed. "Isn't it a bit cold for that? It's the dead of winter."

"Perhaps," he conceded, "but we can adjust the venue. Leave it to me."

Emma considered his suggestion. She hadn't been on a picnic in ages, and she was curious to see where, exactly, Killian would set it up, if not outdoors. The greenhouse, perhaps? It would certainly be warm enough in there today, with the sun shining, and it would almost feel like they were outdoors, with all of the plants sheltered and grown in there. "All right," she said, smiling just a bit. "But I arrange for the food."

He raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching in amusement. "Well, it should be an interesting experience, eating a meal made entirely out of chocolate, but I suppose I'm game."

"Very funny," Emma said, making a face. "Be nice, or I'll keep all the chocolate for myself  and have the chef include some of Max's doggie food for you instead."

Killian turned a little green. "No thanks," he said quickly. "I've seen what he eats these days. Poor old dog..."

* * *

Breakfast was a quiet affair; no one spoke much, save for a brief conversation or two between Eric and Killian. Ariel seemed entirely too preoccupied with keeping down the few pieces of her food that actually appealed to her. Emma could sympathize. Although she now had many more good days than bad, it hadn't been so long ago that she herself had been in a similar position, and she hoped it was a good sign for Ariel's pregnancy that the sickness seemed to be increasing, rather than remaining static or subsiding.

For her own part, Emma's thoughts were too distracted by the promised picnic to sufficiently concentrate on, much less participate in, conversation. When she appeared in the kitchens after the morning meal, the staff only appeared mildly surprised at her presence. They had, she learned, been expecting her to stop by now that her morning sickness was wearing off, and her appetite was improving.

When Emma explained that she was going on a picnic with Killian that afternoon, the kitchen staff was only too pleased to help, offering additional suggestions to the foods Emma had planned--all except for the aging Head Chef, Louis, who grunted an objection to nearly everything they discussed ("No, Killian abhors plum pudding",  or "Madam, that disagrees with him").

"You will never win his heart this way," he finally told her, his accent growing thicker with exasperation.

Emma refrained from pointing out that it was hardly her intention to win her husband's heart--just to feed him--but Louis seemed to believe they were one and the same mission. "Come, he insisted, standing up with effort from the chair in which he had been observing his staff,  "I will show you how it is done."

She followed warily. Given all of the odd stories she had heard about him (something about a crab he was convinced lurked in the kitchens), the chef, though talented, was unbalanced at best. Emma didn't want to chance finding out firsthand how much truth there was to such rumors. What she failed to realize, however, was that Chef Louis was nothing, if not literal. Before she knew quite what happened, she had an apron tied around her growing waist, and flour smeared across her cheeks.

Hours later, with Chef Louis's grudging praise of her skill ringing in her ears, Emma hastened back to her room to freshen up. Although the apron she had worn had saved her clothes from becoming stained on more than one occasion, the kitchen had been warm, with its use of multiple ovens and stoves. And all the layers of petticoats she had been wearing beneath her dress hadn't helped a bit. She needed something fresh and clean. "And cooler, she murmured to herself, pulling the tunic and trousers Killian had gifted to her out of a drawer. "Cooler and more comfortable."

Emma dressed in short order, groaning in relief when she  finally freed herself from the stifling confines of her dress and traded it for the tunic and trousers. After scrubbing her face clean in the wash basin, Emma dried it with a soft towel and turned her attention to her hair. Deciding that an updo would look rather odd with her more casual clothing, Emma pulled the pins out. She reached up, her fingers automatically raking her hair back to braid it, and then caught sight of her own reflection in the dressing table mirror.

She froze.

After weeks of avoiding her pale, waif-like reflection, the healthy creature, with softly flushed cheeks, who stared out of the mirror now was both familiar and foreign to her. Emma didn't know what to make of it, nor of the anticipation that lit her eyes for a fleeting moment before it faded to bewilderment. But it was her hair, falling down her shoulders in loose waves, that truly entranced her.

Emma reached up without thinking, and pulled a lock of hair back, securing it with a silver-plated barrette. Reaching instinctively for its twin, she faltered just before she clipped it into her hair, her movements a sudden, eerie reminder of the primping she had done for Neal before she slipped out of the castle to meet him that night. _And just look where that got you_ , a voice whispered in her head.

Staring at her reflection without expression for several moments, rage overtook her. She ripped the ornaments from her hair with a cry that had nothing to do with the hair that was yanked out in the process. She flung the offending clips away. They fell onto the dressing table with a clatter, skittering away out of sight. Nails sank into her scalp as she gathered the mass of her blonde hair back and laced it into a severe braid. Binding the tail of it, she turned away from the mirror and walked over to the trunk that held her belongings, to retrieve the spare blanket her mother had insisted on packing.

"That's weird," she muttered to herself several minutes later, after carefully sorting through everything. She knew her mother had packed it; they'd had a minor argument about it, but eventually she simply let Snow have her way. It hadn't been worth expending the excess energy to fight over something so trivial, particularly when it was all Emma could do to get through each hour of the day. As a result, her mother had packed the little trunk to the brim with items Emma would never use in the space of entire months, never mind during her honeymoon.

Or so she'd thought.

Emma repacked her belongings. Perhaps one of the maids had moved the blanket to Killian's trunk, she finally decided. Certainly the staff had rearranged the contents of the luggage enough times, prior to the wedding, as Snow kept remembering items Emma and Killian would "need" with them while they were away. And it couldn't hurt to look, could it?

She crossed the room to the large wooden seaman's chest sitting on the floor at the foot of the bed. Unlocking it with the spare key Killian had given her, Emma lifted the lid. Its hinges creaked in protest. Feeling a little like an intruder, she examined Killian's belongings with curiosity. A cloak lay on top, woven out of coarse brown wool. Emma had never seen him wear it, but it was little wonder. Prior to their engagement, her exposure to Killian had been limited to meetings and formal events at the palace, where he wore his naval uniform. And since their marriage, the only cloak she had seen him wear was the one her parents had gifted him--a deep, cobalt blue with silver piping. Where had this simple cloak come from, she wondered, and how long had he owned it?

She lifted it out of the trunk and blinked, surprised at its weight. Unfolding it in her lap, she stared for several moments at the coil of rope and compass nestled inside of it. Bemused that he had packed such things for their honeymoon trip, Emma was strongly reminded of her mother. Still, she supposed Killian's over-preparedness could be attributed to years of sailing; her mother, on the other hand...

Wrapping the objects back in the cloak, Emma laid it aside, turning her attention to three small stacks of books lined up next to each other in a corner of the trunk. Picking one up at random, she leafed through it. Maps and diagrams interspersed the text. Most of them made little sense to her, but she did recognize a few basic constellations that Belle had taught her when she discovered that Emma enjoyed stargazing; she had encouraged her pupil to pursue the interest further, recommending all manner of texts, but...

Emma glanced down at her growing belly. Neal had managed to cull her enthusiasm for the hobby in more ways than one.

She closed the book with an abrupt snap, and focused her mind on the other books in the trunk. Philosophy, history, poetry, cartography, drama...even a couple of murder mysteries lurked in the eclectic mix of books.

Killian Jones was certainly a man of varied interests, she decided. It was too bad she hadn't realized it, back when she had been in love with him. She might have had something more substantial to talk about, during the few opportunities they'd ever had to speak alone.

Emma set the last book aside, and eyed the wooden crate that had been hidden beneath them. What in the world could Killian have packed for their honeymoon in that? It was far too large to have stored the pearl earrings he had given to her as a wedding gift. Prying the lid loose, she peered inside at the velvet-wrapped bundles inside. Selecting the largest, she unwrapped it.

Inhaling sharply, she nearly dropped the exquisite teapot. Carefully resting the delicate treasure in her lap, Emma gently traced the twining ebony branches of the cherry tree emblazoned on the porcelain. Had Killian purchased it at the tea shop they'd visited at the beginning of their honeymoon? He must have, unless he was even more overzealous in packing than her mother. And yet, he hadn't mentioned it to her.

She focused her gaze on the small, feathery strokes of red that comprised the cherry blossoms.

...Or had he?

Killian _had_ mentioned purchasing the Westensees a gift, and given that he knew them quite a bit better than she, Emma had left it entirely up to his discretion. She bit her lip, unable to imagine that Eric would appreciate it to the same degree as Ariel, but the prince did have an appreciation for art, from what she'd gathered during idle supper conversations. And the teapot was certainly a work of artistry, with its fine, hand-painted details.

Taking note of the artist's signature, Emma wrapped the teapot back up with a final, wistful gaze. It was a lovely gift, and one she certainly couldn't begrudge the Westensees for all their kindnesses and understanding, when she and Killian went home to the Enchanted Forest in a few days. And yet, perhaps--

The doorknob rattled, startling her. Emma quickly tucked the teapot back in the crate, replacing the lid as a soft knock sounded on the door. "Emma?" Killian's voice called as she stacked the books back on top of the crate, "Should I come back in a few minutes?"

She closed the trunk and slipped the key into her pocket. Crossing the room in three quick strides, her movements unhampered by skirts, she unlocked the door. "No need," she said breathlessly, yanking the door open. "I just finished dressing." _Several minutes ago_ , she amended to herself with a twinge of guilt.

Killian studied her for several moments, and she writhed inwardly under his penetrating gaze. "You look flushed, love," he said softly. "Are you feeling ill again?"

"What?" Emma blinked at him. "Oh--no, I'm fine. I've just, um, I was in the kitchens and it was rather warm. Hence the change of clothes."

"I see." He considered her for another moment. "Well, it certainly won't be overly warm where we're going. Let me get our cloaks." He brushed past her and disappeared into the room behind her, appearing a few minutes later with their cloaks draped over one arm. "Shall we?" he inquired, draping the fabric of her cloak over her shoulders, and then securing his own.

She took his arm, a gesture that had become unconscious habit. "We'd better," she answered in such a serious tone that Killian laughed softly. "The kitchen packed quite a basket, and I'm _starving_." They set off toward the kitchens, all thoughts of the beautiful teapot driven from her mind in favor of the promise of a pleasant afternoon with Killian, getting to know each other better, as Ariel had suggested.

As it turned out, she was neither wholly right nor wholly wrong about her expectations.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Major trigger warnings for this chapter if you are sensitive to the subject of abortion.

Killian led his wife across the estate grounds, anxious about the location he'd chosen for their picnic. What if she didn't like it? It was hardly an elegant venue, and yet he felt certain it was one the old Emma would like. He saw flashes of her sometimes, lingering remnants of the Emma he'd fallen in love with so long ago; such moments gave him great a great, but cautious hope for the future. But it was the other moments, the more frequent ones of indifference and despondence that worried him. Emma's moods were unpredictable at the best of times. And what might have pleased Emma in her youthful innocence might be received very differently in the aftermath of her trauma. There was so much Killian didn't know about that night, or about her relationship with Neal, and it was all too easy to accidentally reawaken Emma's trauma in his ignorance.

Yet no matter how much she had been forced to change, Killian knew instinctively that underneath it all, pieces of the old Emma were still in there. He just needed to convince her that it was okay to share them again; that it was safe to do so. That they, and all the other new parts of her that were being conceived and formed in the aftermath of her trauma, could be loved. _Were_ loved.

"Can I open my eyes now?" Emma asked, her voice muffled by the scarf wrapped around the lower half of her face.

"Not quite," he answered. "Just a few minutes more. We're almost there."

If the situation had been different, Killian might have insisted that Emma wear a blindfold until they reached their destination. Given all that she had been through, however, he was deeply reluctant to suggest even a gentle restraint on any part of her person. Killian knew instinctively that if there was one thing Emma really needed in her life right now, it was to feel in charge of her own life, to take back the sense of control and autonomy that Neal had stolen from her. And that meant having complete agency over her own body, insofar as it was at all possible, considering the pregnancy.

He opened the stable door with a gloved hand and carefully guided Emma inside, speaking to her in low tones as he did so, lest she stumble. The door shut with a swish of cold air, and Killian pushed back the hood of his cloak, grateful for the warmer atmosphere of the stable. "Keep your eyes closed," he directed her, slipping his hand out of hers, "but let me have the basket, love."

Emma made a face, surrendering the basket. "You're enjoying this far too much," she grumbled.

Killian grinned with amusement as he walked to the other end of the stable. The rectangular bales of hay had been stacked two deep in a U shape, with a layer of fresh hay spread between either end. Killian set the picnic basket on the floor and retrieved the blanket he'd set aside earlier. He spread it over the loose hay, careful not to disturb the warm gin jars buried in the hay along the perimeter of the bales.

"What makes you say that?"

"Well for one thing, I can _smell_ the horses," she pointed out, the corners of her mouth quirking into a smug smile. "So the suspense is sort of gone now."

"The fatal flaw in my plan," he sighed. "All right," he grumbled playfully, "you might as well open your eyes then, Miss Impatience."

Her eyes flew open, and Killian was struck dumb for a moment at their sparkling brilliance.

"I'm sorry," she laughed, walking over to join him. "I didn't mean to-" Her eyes widened when she took in the preparations that Killian and the stable hands had made for the picnic. "So that's where it went!" she exclaimed. "I thought I was going cra-" She broke off suddenly, her expression pained and full of shame.

Killian frowned. He wondered just how much of the group and rumors had penetrated to Emma's awareness in the last few months. He knew her parents had done their best to shield her from them, but even so, the servants _did_ talk. Who knew what they might have whispered in her presence if they thought that she wasn't listening?

"I thought I lost that," she amended gruffly.

"Perhaps I should have mentioned I was taking it," he apologized.

"Never mind that," she shook her head. "We're married. What's mine is yours." She snatched up the basket in one fluid motion. "And likewise, right?" she demanded, turning toward him with an earnestness of expression that startled him.

"Yes, of course," he agreed. He watched while she knelt down and opened the basket. She began to unpack its contents with swift, methodical movements of her fingers, sneaking glances at Killian now and then that unsettled him. "What's the matter?" he asked, rubbing the back of his neck self-consciously.

"Nothing," she mumbled.

Killian neither missed the flush of her cheeks, nor the lie in her voice. Observing her more closely for several silent moments, he became aware of two things: that Emma was no longer sneaking looks his way, and that her focus as she finished unpacking the basket was noticeably intense-as if such a task required every last ounce of her attention or she might fly apart at the seams at any moment.

Had he embarrassed her? Killian rubbed the back of his neck again, feeling foolish. And here again he'd somehow managed to bungle things up without even understanding what was really going on. Killian felt as if he were trying to find his way out of a darkened labyrinth, and every time his eyes finally started to adjust to the darkness, a flare of light blinded him again, causing him to stumble and lose his way once more.

"I feel the need to warn you," Emma said, interrupting his thoughts, "that when chef Louis heard me request food to take on a picnic for us, he took that request very seriously."

Killian groaned.

"He seems to labor under the impression that food is the key to winning hearts and securing marital happiness," she grinned.

"So I've heard." He surveyed the food that she'd set out. "What is all this? There's enough here to feed a small army!"

"Or a pregnant woman," she pointed out with a bluntness that surprised him. "It's lucky for both of us that I'm starving, so we won't have to hurt his feelings by returning with most of this uneaten. Especially the things I made."

He blinked in surprise. "You made some of this?" He surveyed the food spread out on the blanket beside the basket and shook his head. Emma hadn't been kidding. To say that chef Louis had gotten carried away with food for the picnic was an understatement. There was cold chicken breast and lobster salad, small meat pies, cucumber sandwiches, fruit tartlettes, slices of thick, freshly baked bread and a crock of preserves to spread over them, smoked salmon and sweet potato croquettes, tea cakes sprinkled with cinnamon, and at least four different types of chocolate dessert that Killian could see.

"Yes." She pointed peremptorily to a spot beside her. "Now sit."

Killian sat. "Let me guess," he teased, "you made all of the chocolate foods."

"Ha ha," she retorted dryly. "Just for that, you're going to pay, Jones."

A strange shiver coursed through Killian. He'd spent years wishing he could be close enough to Emma to hear her whisper his given name, rather than his rank. But nothing had prepared him for hearing her use his surname with such friendly humor. And though it was meant to be lighthearted, he found it a thousand times more intimate and appealing than all of his fantasies about Emma using his given name. Here she was, come out from hiding. His Emma. His beautiful, spirited, and sarcastic Emma. And she was talking to him with such ease and good humor that he wasn't altogether certain he wasn't dreaming.

Killian responded with an edge of flirtatiousness to his words, as if this were an ordinary picnic, a normal courtship ritual, with no walls between them and no chance of scaring her into retreat. "Do tell, love," he teased back with a smile.

Confusion dawned in her eyes for a moment, and her face burned the color of an evening sunset. Killian watched in breathless amazement as Emma's eyes darted around, unable to settle anywhere near his person. She was still here, he marveled. She hadn't run from him and disappeared into herself again. Surely this _was_ a dream.

"Yes," she said returned, squaring her shoulders when she had composed herself again. "I'm going to exact a little revenge. Close your eyes."

He complied easily, his spirits still buoyed by the fact that they were getting along so well for the moment. "Now what?"

"I'm going to feed you a bite of two dishes," she informed him, "and you have to guess which one I made and which one chef Louis made."

"But I've eaten as a guest at the Westensee's table for years," he protested. "I'm rather familiar with chef Louis's food."

"Humor me," she said blandly.

Humor her he did. And although the bites of food she fed him were all wonderful, he hesitated for only the briefest of seconds on a couple of the dishes before he pronounced which one was which.

"Drat," she sighed, after she allowed him to open his eyes. "You got all of them right."

"Sorry, love. I did warn you."

"Yes," she agreed, reaching for some of the food for herself. "One of these days I'm going to get you, though," she threatened around a mouthful of chocolate cake.

"I'm certain you will, at that," he agreed, reaching for a more substantial portion of the food. He watched her for a moment with mild amusement. "Emma, I realize I'm inviting trouble by interfering with a pregnant woman and her food, but shouldn't you eat something more...substantial...than cake?" he finished diplomatically.

"Probably," she admitted, after finishing off the last bite, "but it sounded so good. My mouth's been watering for a piece since I saw it in the kitchens." She surveyed the food with an indecisive expression. "All right, fine. I'll eat something else. I promised chef Louis I would, anyway."

He blinked. Jealousy followed quick on the heels of surprise. Louis had managed to extract such a promise from his wife? He knew the grumpy old chef could be direct to a fault-pushy, even-but Killian had never imagined that he'd have been so bold as to take Emma to task for her eating habits. Still, the old chef watched every dish that entered and left his kitchen with an eagle eye. He was certain to have noticed how much Emma _hadn't_ been eating for much of their visit. And whether it was from concern or ego, Louis was apparently going to take advantage of that now that Emma's appetite seemed to be growing.

Killian knew he was being irrational. He was glad that someone had gotten through to Emma about taking care of herself. Baby or no baby, she needed to eat better and get more rest. Killian had been trying to get through to Emma about these things for months. And while there had been progress, however grudging or halting at times, it still felt like trying to roll a boulder uphill. He ought to feel grateful to have an ally (and an effective one at that), however temporary it was.

"He's right, love," Killian said gently.

"About what?" she said, taking a bite of one of the croquettes.

"Eating better."

She finished the croquette and started in on another before she answered, "What does it look like I'm doing?" Smiling, Killian watched her as she finished that one and then devoured a third croquette. "I don't even _like_ salmon," she told him with a shake of her head after she finished it.

"A prejudice which I've never quite understood, myself."

"Anyway, it's not like I have much of a choice _but_ to eat, at this point," she said with a trace of bitterness.

"Emma," he hesitated, reluctant to ruin the happy atmosphere they had managed to maintain up until now, "I generally make it my policy not to pry for information, but...how _do_ you feel about the baby?"

She retreated into herself again the moment he let the question fall from his lips. He could have kicked himself, and yet it was something that needed to be addressed between them at some point.

"It doesn't matter how I feel," she said flatly.

"Of course it does. Particularly if the reason you haven't been eating well is because you don't want it."

Her laugh was sharp and bitter. "I haven't been eating because I felt _fucking terrible!_ You'd think people might realize that, the way I hardly kept down more than my tea and a mouthful of crackers for the past four months! But no, it's always push _, push_ , _**push**_ to eat for the _baby_! Even from my own mother! My mother, who cares much more about her precious royal legacy and the next generation's heir than she does about her own damned daughter!"

"Emma," he sighed wearily. "I don't think it's like that at all. Your mother loves you deeply, you know that."

"Maybe," she said sullenly. "But it doesn't matter anyway. I don't have a choice at this point."

Killian frowned. "Why do you keep saying that?"

Something in Emma snapped. Her eyes flashed with a fury and self-loathing that chilled Killian to his core. "Because I was going to kill the little parasite!" she shouted, leaping to her feet. Several of the horses startled in their stalls in response. "Is that what you want to hear?! Aunt Ruby could _smell_ it in me before I was even due for my cycle! Do you know how that feels, to not even have control enough over your life to be able to wait out your own body to see if you're pregnant?! To be informed of it like you're a bystander to your own body?" She paced back and forth, more agitated than Killian had ever seen her.

"Emma..." He rose to his feet, his arms aching with the need to hold her, to soothe her and make everything better, but afraid that any attempt on his part would only make things worse.

"Aunt Ruby sneaked a potion into my room," Emma said more calmly-indeed, almost clinically, "procured from an apothecarist who specializes in..." She stopped, closing her eyes, and took several deep breaths. "It was all so simple," she whispered. Killian had the distinct feeling that she was no longer talking to him, but to herself. "All I had to do was drink it. It would've bled out just the same as if it was my normal monthly, and no one would've ever known the difference. Not my mom, not my dad. Not anyone but Aunt Ruby."

"What happened?" he asked softly.

"I don't know," she wailed, tears streaming down her face. "I don't know," she repeated. "I was scared. What if it didn't work? And then what if it _did_? What if I was relieved afterward? What if I _wasn't_?" She sniffed, scrubbing at her face, and Killian quietly offered her his handkerchief. She bobbed her head at him in thanks, then blew her nose in a rather indelicate manner that might have made him smile had the situation not been as grave as it was.

"I couldn't make a decision, so I buried it a trunk for later, after I cleared my head." She swallowed. "But I couldn't stop thinking about it for several days, not for a single second. And the more I thought about it, the more I hated Neal. Hated that I even had to be in this position to begin with, to make that kind of decision." She sniffed again. "And the more I hated Neal, the more I wanted to get rid of it because it was part of him."

"But you didn't," he observed without judgment. "Why was that, if you hated it so much for being his?"

"Because it was mine, too," she whispered fiercely. "Part of _it_ was conceived from part of _me_. Maybe...maybe that doesn't make any sense. But once the thought crept into my head, I couldn't get it out. And I couldn't go through with it, either. I was a coward."

"You are not a coward," he said firmly. "You made one of the most difficult decisions anyone could be faced with," he told her, " _all by yourself_. That's not cowardice, Emma. It's bravery. You didn't rush into anything. You made the best decision you could at the time. "

She looked unconvinced, but didn't press the point. "The servants noticed my lack of a monthly soon after that, and my parents were notified." She sighed. "I didn't even get the chance to tell them myself," she whispered miserably. "So I don't really know _how_ I feel about this baby," she finished tiredly, "but it's coming now, whether I want it or not. The time for choices is gone."

"That's not necessarily true. You don't have to raise the child."

She stared at him in confusion. "You mean...give it away?"

"Place it in a good home, yes."

"But my mother would never agree to that. She would never turn a family member away. Family is one of the most important things in the world to her. Look at Regina. She's spent years trying to destroy my mother and take the kingdom by force, and Snow still holds out the hope that they can mend their relationship someday. She'd welcome Regina back with open arms and a kingdom-wide feast in a heartbeat, if Regina showed any indication of wanting peace. If she's that determined about the step-mother that's tried to murder her for half of her life, why wouldn't she be just as determined to preserve the potential heir I carry, also in the name of family?"

"But Emma, _you_ are her family, too," he reminded her. "And I think she'd do anything if she thought it was your best chance for a good life," he said quietly. "And the baby's. But then, it's not really her decision to make, is it?"

Her brow furrowed. "But what about the political implications? If Regina, who's only related through marriage and has no legitimate claim to the throne can dedicate her entire life to trying to overthrow the kingdom, think about the problems a legitimate heir with blood ties might present."

"Emma, love," he told her gently, "you don't have to make the decision right now. There's plenty of time to sort out how you feel and what you want to do. Just know that if you decide to give the baby a different home, I will support you in that, no matter how your parents may feel."

A terrible, cautious hope dawned in her eyes, warring with the skepticism written across her face. "You would?" she whispered. "Really?"

"Of course, love. I wouldn't say it if I didn't mean it."

"But...Neal always..." She inhaled sharply, starting to shake.

Killian, fearing she would fall, reached for her. She flinched away from his touch, looking both ashamed and apologetic. "It's all right, darling," he soothed, "He's not here. He can't hurt you anymore. Sit down. That's a lass." He poured her a cup of cider. "Drink. It will help."

He watched her gulp down the sweet beverage. "Better?" he asked, once she finished.

"A little." She held her cup out to him with a silent plea. He obliged with a smirk, and Emma finished the second cup before she finally spoke again. "Killian? Why are you so nice to me?"

Recognizing the familiar question that lurked beneath the surface, he sighed inwardly and reminded himself that it was going to take a great deal of time to convince her that he could be trusted, and that he had no ulterior motives. "Because I like you, Emma," he said honestly. "I always have."

She frowned, as if trying to process his words. "I don't understand. We barely knew each other."

"Aye, that's true in some ways," he agreed. "But I suppose I've always recognized something similar to myself in you. A kindred spirit, if you will."

"Kindred spirit?" she echoed, as if testing out the words. "And that's why you want to be friends?"

"Yes."

"And not because you want the-the same thing Neal did?" she asked haltingly, eyeing him with a fearful expression.

Killian put every ounce of patience he possessed into answering her, because as tired as he was of having this same conversation over and over, he knew that she was seeking a much-needed reassurance every time she asked it, much like a child testing a parent's affection. She needed to be confident of his intentions and his presence before she could heal from the hurts that Neal had inflicted on her. And from all that Emma had indicated, they were legion.

"Emma," he began, "I have never lied to you about the fact that I'm not exactly averse to a conjugal relationship in addition to our friendship. But as I've said before, I will not force you. If-and _only if_ -you desire more intimate contact between us, it will be up to you to initiate it. Does that satisfy?"

She nodded quickly, her cheeks burning pink once more.

"Good. Now let's eat more of this food, or chef Louis will think we don't like it, and you don't want to see what happens after that."

"That bad?" she wondered, reaching for some of the chicken.

"Let's just say that the last time I didn't finish my stuffed crab, it sent him into hysterics the likes of which hadn't been seen since Ariel and Eric's wedding."

"Really? What happened?" she asked, her eyes afire with curiosity. "Everybody gossips about it, but I still don't quite understand what went on."

"Ah," he grinned. "Now _that_ is quite the tale..."


	12. Chapter 12

 

Emma hummed to herself as she carefully packed her trunk for their trip back to the Enchanted Forest. Their honeymoon was almost over, and they would be returning home in two days, a fact which both pleased and scared her. They had been at the Westensees almost a month. She'd never been away from her parents for so long in her entire life, and she missed them terribly. But going home meant that she and Killian would have to learn how to function publically as a married couple, and she was nervous as to what that might entail. The picnic, although fraught with as many negative emotions as positive ones, had shifted things between her and Killian.

The change went unacknowledged between them, each of them fearing to wither this barest blossoming of genuine friendship between them, but not unrecognized. The new bond between them was instead realized in ways so microscopic that others might deem them inconsequential. So if they caught each other's gaze across the breakfast table more often, spoke in more intimate, hushed tones when they were alone, or slept a few inches closer at night, only Killian and Emma realized the real significance of it.

The door opened behind her, and Emma turned to greet her husband. She'd been anticipating his presence all morning. Killian had promised to do something special that afternoon, but he had been annoyingly tight-lipped about what it was. "Hello," she smiled, tucking a folded chemise into the trunk. "So where are we going later?" she tried, hoping to trick him into answering if she sprang it on him suddenly.

"Nice try, love," he chuckled, shutting the door behind him. "Here," he said, handing her two envelopes. "These arrived this morning." He walked over to the bed and sat down, unlacing his boots. The muscles in his arms and thighs corded with his movements.  Emma watched with fascination, not even realizing that she was staring, until Killian looked up, shooting her a quizzical look. "Something the matter?"

"No," she said quickly, turning her attention to her mail. "Nothing. I'm fine." She broke the familiar seal on the first envelope and opened the first letter. Her mother's neat, flowing script filled the page,

_Dearest Emma,_

_I hope this letter finds you and Killian in good health. Preparations for your return are well underway, and the staff has been working tirelessly preparing your new set of apartments in the palace. All of your personal effects have now been moved into it, and Captain Jones is personally delivering Killian's possessions to your new rooms. I took the liberty of purchasing some new furnishings for both of you as a belated wedding present, but don't fret; I didn't go overboard. I remember how important it is to the intimacy of newlyweds to settle into their own space together and make it a home. It seems like just yesterday your father and I were redecorating the royal apartments after our own wedding._

_On the subject of weddings, I have planned a ball after your return. Now don't make that face, Emma. Your wedding ball was lovely, but we both know it was hardly personal with all of the officials and dignitaries that were present. Your father suggested, and I agreed, that a more private affair was in order to properly celebrate your wedding--strictly family and close friends. Alice has sent word that she will be attending, as well as Elsa and Anna. The Westensees have also been invited, and we would love to see them if their schedule permits it at present._

_I do hope one of your new gowns will match the wrap I bought for you. I remember being very cold when I was expecting you, even in the summer! Your Aunt Ruby was just the opposite when she was expecting her girls--always hot, even in the dead of winter._

_Your father and I miss you terribly, Emma, and we look forward to your return. Give our best to Killian!_

_Love always,_

_Mama_

"They're throwing us a ball when we go home," she informed Killian. "A wedding reception."

"Another one?" she heard him reply in a bewildered tone.

"Something more intimate," she explained, "without all of the gossiping strangers."

"Ah," he said in an odd tone that caused Emma to turn toward him again. He looked chagrined. "People were gossiping at our wedding?"

"Well, I didn't personally hear them," she admitted, "but I'm certain some of them were. People always gossip at balls. It passes the time between dancing and eating."

He grinned. "Oh? Is that right? And what did young Emma gossip about at balls?"

Emma felt her face heat up with embarrassment. "Wouldn't you like to know," she retorted.

"Perhaps I would," he said with a quiet earnestness that confused her.

_Emma smoothed down the tiered skirt of her ivory organza ball gown and joined her friends on the balcony. The cool evening air was a welcome relief after the hot, stuffy air of the ballroom, and she inhaled deeply, filling her lungs with it. Stars dotted the night sky like scattered seed pearls, reminding Emma of the time she'd broken her mother's best choker. She'd lost half the tiny stones between the floorboards, and ended up stashing the remaining pieces of the jewelry in the back of her wardrobe, where her six year old self soon forgot about them. Her mother found them there weeks later when she was selecting some of Emma's older, too small play clothes to donate to poorer families._

_She'd been roundly lectured for her carelessness and deception, and hadn't been allowed to go out horseback riding for a whole week. It hadn't been her finest moment._

_"Emma!" Alice grinned, springing up from her chair to crush her with a hug, "there you are! I haven't seen you all night!"_

_She patted her friend on the back. "Sorry," she apologized as Alice released her, "my parents must have introduced me to every boring state official and foreign dignitary they could possibly find to torture me with." She flopped ungracefully into a chair between Alice and Merida, the curly-haired redhead from an allied kingdom. She wasn't particularly close with Merida, not like Alice, since they didn't see each other often, but they were on friendly enough terms that Emma could speak freely around her. Merida certainly didn't give a damn about how princess-like Emma was or wasn't._

_"Ever since I started attending those boring state meetings, they expect me to learn and remember the rank and title of every official, dignitary, or minor nobleman they introduce me to," Emma huffed._

_"Well, it is an important part of running a kingdom," Merida pointed out. "I'm just glad I don't have to be bothered about it yet. Dad still lets me have a bit of freedom from responsibility. I intend to enjoy it while I can."_

_"Lucky you," Emma replied sourly, propping her chin up on one hand. While there were a few things she enjoyed about recently turning fourteen (such as being allowed to stay up later, or wearing gowns that were somewhat more daring in their cut, like the barely-off-the-shoulder sweetheart neckline her father had grudgingly allowed her to wear tonight) on the whole, Emma felt that she was accepting more responsibilities than gaining privileges. And as much as she'd known that one day it be a reality, it still chafed._

_"Oh, cheer up, Emma," Alice urged. "You're free for a little while now. Let's play a game!"_

_"What can we play out here?" Merida wondered. "This isn't a very large balcony."_

_"I know, we can play Which One! Come on, Emma, it will be the perfect antidote to meeting all of those stuffy people!"_

_"I've never played it," Merida frowned, "what are the rules?"_

_"Oh there aren't any rules," Alice said with a shake of her head. "It's just something fun to pass the time. What you do is you pick someone out of a crowd without telling anyone who it is, and then you make up a story about them. Then the others have to guess which person you're talking about. Here," she said, standing up from her chair. "I'll go first and show you."_

_Alice poked her head around one of the heavy curtains that hung over the open balcony doors. "Come on!" she insisted._

_Sighing, Emma reluctantly moved to join her, followed by a mildly curious Merida. They spent the next several minutes guessing which of the women in the ballroom fit with Alice's elaborate story about a fairy in disguise who'd been punished for falling in love with a human and driven mad by their separation._

_"She doesn't know he's been dead for centuries," Alice whispered as the three of them peered into the ballroom, watching the crowd of people swaying across the dance floor. "She thinks they've just met, so every time there's a ball, she searches for her love, but she never finds him."_

_"That one, there," Merida said, pointing at a petite woman with blonde, curly hair dressed in a flowing gown of green and gold. "Has to be. She looks so sad."_

_Alice shook her head. "She doesn't know he's dead, remember? She has nothing to be sad about."_

_"Her," Emma decided, pointing to a noblewoman dressed in red from the glittering ruby tiara in her knot of blonde hair, down to her dainty crimson shoes. "She's hovering at the edge of the crowd, as if she's waiting for someone. She's not quite smiling, because she hasn't lost hope yet, but she's beginning to have her doubts that he'll show."_

_"Very good, Emma," her friend approved. "Okay, now it's your turn."_

_Emma studied the sea of people, searching for someone who looked as if they might provide her with a unique story to spin for her friends. Several interesting candidates presented themselves, but Emma finally selected a woman wearing an ebony dress with black feathers sewn all over it, and a cross expression. She opened her mouth to weave a tale about a vain, spoiled princess that had been cursed to revert into an ugly vulture every time she let her bad temper and selfish nature take control, but stopped, the breath gasping out of her lungs before she could say one word, as two men entered the ballroom._

_Both of them were tall and wore crisp blue and white naval uniforms that Emma knew in a moment were of brand new issue, based on the subtle, but telltale difference in the cut of their jackets compared to the older uniforms. Their facial features were similar enough, and their manner familiar enough as they chuckled together about something, that Emma surmised they were close kin of some sort. Brothers, perhaps. Or cousins. Certainly both were what Alice would unabashedly call "blindingly handsome," with broad shoulders and neatly trimmed facial scruff. But it was the one with black hair pulled into a neat queue at his nape that gave her heart pause. His wide grin lit up the ballroom--or so it seemed to Emma, who suddenly found herself wiping her damp palms on her ruffled skirt--captivating her. She watched him, entranced, until he turned in her direction. Striking blue eyes met her own, and she felt a queasy feeling begin in the pit of her stomach. Emma stared, helpless to do anything else, until he flashed one of those devastating grins at her and_ winked _, the bastard. Horrified that she'd been caught so openly admiring him, Emma ducked behind the curtains again, retreating back to her seat on the balcony._

_She sat down in the chair hard, her legs not quite steady enough to maintain their balance until she was fully seated. Her cheeks burned with humiliation. She'd never behaved so strangely in her entire life._

_"Emma?" Alice's voice floated over to her. "What's wrong? What did you see?"_

_Half-dazed, Emma told her friends about the handsome, much older lieutenant. Had she been thinking clearly, she might have been able to think of a convincing white lie to put them off and spare herself some further embarrassment at her peculiar behavior. Rather than tease her, however, as she'd expected, Merida and Alice poked their heads around the curtain again to get a look at the handsome lieutenant for themselves._

_"Oh, Emma, he's so handsome!" Alice said with a gleeful smile after they let the curtain fall back into place. "And you said he smiled at you? Maybe he likes you!"_

_"Alice," she sighed with a roll of her eyes, "he's clearly much older than me."_

_"Well, but you look much older in that dress," she shrugged, "with your hair all curled."_

_"Anyway, it's not as if you can't look," Merida cut in with a wicked smile. "I'd take him to bed if I could."_

_"Merida!" Alice gasped, choking back a laugh._

_"What?" Merida said, looking from one to the other with wide eyes. "I bet he's a real firecracker between the sheets. Don't tell me it didn't cross_ your _minds!"_

_"Well..." Alice said by way of admission, with an embarrassed smile._

_"See!"_

_Emma ignored her chattering friends as they teased one another with good-natured viciousness, her mind going back to the way the lieutenant had winked at her. She felt certain that he couldn't have known she was the crown princess, or he never would have done something so bold. For all he knew, she was just another visitor the palace. Emma found that she liked that idea. She was tired of her rank always getting in the way of her interactions with other people. It was nice to think that the handsome older man had smiled and winked at her because he had meant it, rather than condescend to her with empty, courtly gestures meant to flatter her supposed vanity, like those who were aware of her rank usually did._

_"What do you think, Emma?" Merida said, interrupting her thoughts._

_Blinking, she swiveled her head to look at the other princess. "I'm sorry, what?"_

_Her friends laughed. "She must still be thinkin' about that lieutenant," Merida grinned. "Maybe we should give her some privacy for a while."_

_"You two are awful," she rolled her eyes. "Come on, let's go find something to eat," she decided, trying to distract them from their teasing. Her thoughts had been perfectly chaste and aboveboard, thank you very much._

_But later, when she lay between the cool sheets of her bed that night, trying to sleep, the lieutenant's dazzling grin and arresting blue eyes crept into the thoughts of her unguarded mind and fueled some very racy thoughts indeed. Her friend, she imagined, relaxing into the sheets afterward with a sigh, was right. The new lieutenant was a veritable hellfire between the sheets indeed._

She cleared her throat awkwardly, turning away from Killian before he could deduce that he had once been the source of such adolescent gossip. "Alice sent a letter, too," she informed him opening it. She scanned the contents. It was the usual missive of tales about her travels with the white rabbit, punctuated now and then with references to a fellow named Cyrus that Emma had long suspected Alice was rather sweet on.

"That's nice. Will she be at the reception?"

"Mother's letter says she will," Emma replied, setting her letters aside. She picked up a powder blue dress and resumed packing, carefully folding it and placing it in tissue paper before she placed it in her trunk. It was one of the new ones that Killian had urged her to have made, and she didn't want  to damage the delicate, filmy fabric with wrinkles or grime.

"I'm surprised she was able to get word to her, given what you've told me of her nomadic nature."

"She has a way with birds," Emma explained, reaching for another gown. "She uses them to send small notes sometimes."

"Like that?" Killian said in an odd tone.

She turned with a frown, and followed Killian's gaze to the opened window. A small wren perched on the sill, a tiny white scroll tied to its leg. Emma approached it slowly, so as not to startle it. Even trained to find and deliver mail to close friends and family members as they were, some of the birds still frightened easily if not approached and handled with great care. Her mother had spent hours of Emma's childhood instilling the proper conduct in her, until her affinity with birds was nearly equal to the queen's own. "Yes," she said quietly, "just like this."

Carefully removing the scroll, she perused the short note and her heart filled with dread. "Killian, we need to go back early," she told him with quiet urgency.

"Why? We're going back in a few days as it is."

Walking over, she sat close to him on the bed and handed him the note, unable to form the words that were necessary to tell him, and yet dreading for him to read it for himself. He read it with a frown, his expression quickly changing from idle curiosity to fear. "He'll be okay," Emma reassured him, closing her hand upon his own. "He's a strong man."

"The strongest I know," Killian said hoarsely, his hand tightening around hers, "but even a man like Liam can die of the Fever."

He was right. They both knew it. Yellow Fever still claimed the lives of many sailors, despite the efforts by many physicians to understand and treat the illness. No matter how hopeful of a picture she tried to paint, Liam's life was in real danger, or her parents wouldn't have sent the terse note, interrupting their honeymoon. "He'll be okay," she repeated, gazing up at him. Their eyes locked together, and the vulnerability she saw in his blue eyes made her want to do everything in her power to ensure those words came true. "Just have hope."

Killian attempted a smile, not quite managing to extinguish the worry and fear that was written upon his face. "Well, if there's one thing I've learned from you, there's always hope."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Originally, I intended for this chapter to take a darker, more dramatic turn, but I opted to put that off for a later time and give you guys a happier chapter. I've put you through the wringer so much already, I decided to be nice! Unfortunately, that meant making poor Liam metaphorical cannon fodder, but it's all to a good purpose, I swear! 
> 
> In the next chapter, they will be arriving back home, and we can start working toward some of the good stuff I have planned!


	13. Chapter 13

It was a testament to how far they had come in their relationship that Emma set things in motion for their journey back. Worry for his brother and the intimacy of Emma sitting so close, offering _him_ comfort and reassurance, had garbled Killian’s thoughts, and he’d been unable to think past the sear of her touch. The press of her hand and the curl of her fingers as they covered his own was engraved into his mind, and his brain was unable to move beyond the sensation, blotting out any coherent thought that would allow him to plan for their return home. So it was that Killian sat on the bed, watching in numb silence while Emma took charge of the situation.

He really shouldn’t have been surprised. He always knew that one day she would make a hell of a queen. But thinking of the potential and seeing it in action were two different things. Under normal circumstances, it would have taken his breath away to see that familiar flash of determination in her green eyes, to see the stubborn set of her jaw as she made an internal decision as to What Must Be Done, because it was very much a return to part of the old Emma he’d watched grow into womanhood.

Summoning a pair of servants, Emma quickly dispatched them to find Ariel and Eric, and then marched over to the dresser, opening the drawers where Killian kept his clothes. Gathering a random selection from each drawer, Emma carried them over to her trunk and packed them within its confines. Ariel arrived as she was in the midst of this, and helped her pack some of Emma’s own clothing, promising to send Killian’s trunk and their other belongings along by carriage tomorrow.

As he watched the two women reach for the handles of Emma’s trunk, Killian finally roused to action. Spurred by the sight of his wife’s slightly swollen belly as she bent forward, Killian hurried over, remembering that Ariel was expecting too. “Thank you, ladies,” he said gruffly, before they could grasp the handles of the trunk, “but I don’t believe either of you should be lifting anything in your conditions.”

“He’s right,” Eric’s familiar voice rumbled as he entered the room, carrying a basket in one hand. He joined Ariel, his expression worried as he studied her, and Killian remembered that she had miscarried a number of her pregnancies. “Let the servants take care of it. I just sent for a carriage. It should be ready shortly.” He lifted the basket and handed it to Emma with a wink. “Louis gave this to me with strict orders that you shouldn’t open it until you’re in the carriage.”

Emma beamed, accepting the basket with ill-disguised eagerness. “I wonder what’s inside?” Ariel said, sniffing the air as if she might be able to figure it out by scent alone. For all Killian knew, she just might. From all that he’d observed of expectant women, their sense of smell was heightened considerably.

“I don’t know,” Emma murmured in reply. Her fingers twitched, as if itching to find out what lay inside the basket. Killian observed her out of the corner of the eye, smirking. Some things about a person never changed. There was comfort and stability in that. Emma just needed to discover it for herself.

“It seems she and Chef Louis made quite an impression on each other,” Eric observed to Killian with a murmur.

“Yes, she told me about it. I didn’t think Louis did much actual cooking or baking these days.”

“He doesn’t. He mostly observes and directs the kitchen staff.”

“Then why--?”

“He has his own reasons, I imagine.” Eric shrugged. “Perhaps it’s her connection to you. He’s always thought highly of you and approved of our friendship. Or maybe she’s like the daughter he imagines he might have had, if he’d chosen a different life.”

Killian hoped it was so, but his instincts told him otherwise. Chef Louis was sharp, and he always kept abreast of gossip. It was much more likely that he’d heard enough of the rumors regarding the origin of Emma’s pregnancy and felt it his personal duty to offer an avenue of healing to her in the culinary arts. It made sense, given how he’d pressed Emma into his service and taught her so readily. Louis was more likely to chase people out of his kitchen than welcome them inside it, much less give them cooking and baking lessons.

“Make sure to write,” Ariel whispered to Emma in farewell as they stood outside on the palace steps a short time later.

“I will,” Emma smiled. She glanced over at Eric. “Thank you both for everything.”

“Of course,” he answered with an amiable smile, flashing the deep-set dimples that Ariel had once confided made her first fall in love with him. “Anything you ever need.”

Killian hugged his old navy friend in farewell, and the newlyweds were firmly ensconced in a carriage before the hour was out. Melly’s tearstained face at their sudden departure watched stayed with Killian for several miles. She’d understood the necessity of their swift departure, once Killian and her parents explained it, but her disappointment at missing out on the last days of Killian’s visit had been palpable.

“We’ll make it up to her,” Emma said quietly, once the carriage pulled away from the Westensee estate.

“What?” Killian blinked down at his wife, nestled beside him in the carriage.

“Melly,” she said. “That’s who you were thinking about, wasn’t it? We’ll make it up to her next time we see her.”

“Thank you,” he said simply.

“She’s a sweet girl,” Emma mused, “and it’s obvious you adore her.” Killian rubbed the back of his neck, both pleased and embarrassed at her observations. “I like having her around,” she continued, “she makes me wish…” She trailed off, clearing her throat. “I like the Westensees. They’ll always be welcome in our home.”

 _Our home_. The words resonated with Killian. The honeymoon was over. They were well and truly going to make a life together now. Tucked away at the Westensees, away from the prying eyes and gossip of the court, they had been able to have a reprieve of sorts while they began to sort out how they would function together as a married couple. That reprieve was gone now, cut short, even by his brother’s illness. Killian had no idea what his future held in terms of his relationship with Emma, and certainly he was wary of what the intrigues and gossip of court might do to hinder what amiability was blossoming between then, but Emma’s words gave him renewed hope for all that lay ahead.

 “That means a lot to me, Emma. Thank you.”

She shrugged a shoulder, turning to peer out of the window next to her, and Killian had the distinct impression that now it was she who felt embarrassed. “So,” she said after a moment, looking over at him again, “shall we see what’s in the basket?”

“I was wondering when you’d get around to that,” he grinned.

* * *

The journey back to the castle was much swifter than the one to the Westensees. They travelled all day and through the night, stopping only now and then to change horses and see to their own needs. Much of the ride was silent, but Killian didn’t mind. The silence was comfortable, even companionable, and a far cry from the awkward tenseness that had filled the carriage at the outset of their honeymoon. He supposed he could have attempted conversation, but his heart wasn’t really in it. Worry for his brother clouded his mind, and he had difficulty thinking of much beyond the need to see his brother. There were so many things that needed to be shared and said, just in case—

He couldn’t let himself complete the thought. But yet his mind kept coming back to it, haunted by the distinct possibility that loomed before him. Whatever would he do without his brother? Liam had been the stabilizing force in Killian’s life for so long; he’d been the one to take charge and provide for Killian when their mother was ill and their father was absent. It was Liam who had procured their naval commissions and enabled them to escape a life of complete destitution. And when it had become clear that their monarch was evil and corrupt, it had been Liam that had arranged to move them to the Enchanted Forest to work for Queen Snow, who was as renowned for her kindness and mercy as she was her fierceness and beauty.

If not for any of that, Killian never would have met his Emma. And for that, Killian realized, it was even his brother that had ultimately been responsible for Killian’s life converging with hers.

“We’re here,” Emma said quietly, sitting up to look out the carriage window. The blanket that had been covering her shoulders fell into her lap as she peered out at the familiar palace grounds, her expression unreadable.  “Are you ready?”

“For what?” he couldn’t help asking as the carriage slowed to a stop.

She turned, smiling at him over her shoulder with something akin to pity. “Marriage to a crown princess.”

The carriage door opened before he was able to fully process her words, much less formulate an answer, and Emma climbed out, ignoring the silent offer of help from the footman. His wife transformed before his eyes in a matter of moments. Drawing herself to her full height, she shook the dust from her skirts with an even grace, tilting her chin upward a fraction. Gone was all trace of the vulnerability and softness he’d witnessed on their honeymoon with the Westensees. This Emma was the regal future queen that her subjects expected to see, Killian realized as he watched his wife graciously greet a small throng of villagers and townsfolk gathered outside of the carriage.

 “Follow my lead,” he heard Emma hiss as he climbed out of the carriage to stand beside her. She bent to accept flowers from an unruly scamp with adoring eyes for the princess. “It’s faster.”

Studying Emma out of the corner of one eye, Killian adapted to the situation as best as he could and tried not to let his frustration at the delay show. His duties as prince consort must come first. This was all part and parcel of what he had signed himself up for through marriage to the princess. It wasn’t as if he could take it back now. Or that he even wished to.

They worked their way through the crowd in a direct line toward the palace, accepting congratulations and tokens of affection, while offering their own greetings and goodwill in return. Quite frankly, it stunned Killian a little bit at how heartily he was welcomed. Somehow, he’d expected more reticence, given his humble background, and how little anyone outside of the palace knew about him.

Bidding goodbye to their well-wishers as they reached the palace steps, Killian took Emma’s hand out of habit, and they climbed the steps in sync. King David stood at the entrance to the palace with a retinue of guards, smiling slightly as he watched them approach.  “Welcome back,” he greeted, his blue eyes shining. “It’s good to have you back,” he said, embracing Emma.

It was minute, the stiffening of Emma’s shoulders, and the sharp intake of breath soft, but her reaction might as well have been a shout to her own father. Killian watched in dismay, his heart breaking for both of them, as David released his daughter quickly and shifted his gaze away to shield her from the hurt that Killian was certain must be etched into his face. “Sorry,” he murmured with embarrassment, “I didn’t think—” He looked up at Killian helplessly, desperation and misery and barely concealed rage reflected in his blue eyes. “So, um, how are the Westensees?” he recovered awkwardly.

“They are well,” Killian answered, buying Emma some time to recover the natural rhythm of her breathing again, “and they send their best wishes.”

“Good, I’m glad to hear it.” David glanced over at his daughter, his expression unreadable. “Well, let’s get you both inside. That’s quite a journey, even at a normal pace. I’ll have your belongings sent over to your new set of suites. Are either of you hungry?” he inquired as they entered the palace, flanked by guards.

“No,” Emma replied, her expression miserable, “just tired.”

“I’ll have someone escort you to your new rooms,” David offered quickly.

“No need,” Killian interjected smoothly. “I’ll help see her settled in before I find Liam.” It would give them a chance to talk, and after what had just occurred between Emma and her father, Killian suspected that his wife would need to speak about it. The question was whether she would want or even be able to talk about it yet.

Understanding sparked in David’s eyes. “We put you over in the East wing,” he informed them. “Snow thought you’d have a bit more privacy over there.” He nodded at one of the guards. “Gavin can show you which set of suites. Let me know if there’s anything you need.”

“You didn’t have to accompany me,” Emma murmured after a long silence during the walk to their new apartments. “I know you’re worried about Liam.”

Glancing at her sidelong, Killian discarded several potential responses that might have revealed the depth of his feelings and scared her. “Liam isn’t the only person I care for and worry about,” he finally said as they arrived at the new set of apartments that had been set aside for them. He opened the door and stepped aside to let his wife walk through.

Eyeing him with an expression that was equal parts guilty and cynical, she swept past him into the antechamber and continued into the drawing room. Killian followed, quietly closing the door behind him. The raised panel wainscoting of the antechamber walls stretched from floor to ceiling, the warm, earthy cherry tones gleaming against the softer, neutral hue of the oak parquetry flooring. Killian studied the craftsmanship with interest. Years of sailing had given him basic carpentry skills, and he while he rather enjoyed the craft so far as he’d learned it, he’d long been aware that his talent was rudimentary at best.

“So have I finally rendered you speechless?” he teased after he entered the drawing room. Emma lay sprawled on a chaise longue, her honey-colored skirts carelessly askew and her eyes screwed shut as if she wished to hide from the world. Hues of red, pink, and gold highlighted her skin along the arch of her neck as light streamed in from the stained beveled glass window behind her.

“No skepticism or saucy retort?” he tried again. “How momentous.”

“I had a fit of the vapors,” she muttered. “So I decided to lie down.”

Snorting in amusement, Killian selected a soft blue bergère armchair and settled into it. He was surprised to find that it was as comfortable as it looked. That wasn’t always the case, he’d discovered, with fine furniture. Queen Snow had good taste, he decided, eyeing the gold and cream rug with its sprays of rosebuds that lay beneath his feet. It almost made him feel guilty to actually use such fine furnishings for fear that he’d ruin them.

“The vapors?” he finally sighed. “You know, Emma, if you’re going to make up excuses not to talk to me, you ought to at least make them believable. You’re the last woman I know to suffer from frequent bouts of the vapors, much less admit to them on the rare occasion that you’re feeling faint.”

Opening her eyes, she turned her head and peered at him with a mischievous expression. “I’ll have you know I spent half my adolescence in recovery from the vapors. I nearly drove mother to distraction every time I pulled that stunt to get out of a lesson with one of my tutors.”

“But not Belle, surely?”

“Of course not. Belle isn’t gullible enough. Besides, her lessons weren’t boring.”

“Neither are mine,” he found himself saying with a provocative lift of his eyebrows. Emma blushed to the roots of her golden hair, eyes widening slightly. “Or so I’ve been told by many a lass,” he recovered, trying to cloak his unintended flirting with a bit of the very healthy Jones ego.

“I can’t believe you turned this conversation into one about your male prowess,” she complained, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

“Ah, but you seem to have survived it just fine. Does this mean you’re sufficiently recovered from your supposed fit of the vapors to feel up to talking about what happened back there with your father?”

Her face fell, the smile melting away like fresh snowflakes in the warm sun. “Killian, your brother is sick,” she said with a troubled, almost moody expression. “I don’t want this to be about me right now.”

“I do,” he insisted. “Emma, I can’t rest easy caring for my brother if I know you’re upset and working yourself into an illness of your own over something you can’t control.”

She struggled to sit up, unused to the new limitations of movement her swelling belly placed upon her. Killian rose from his chair and walked over to offer his aid. She accepted his help, clasping his hand, and stood up. The small swell of her belly bumped into his, and Killian felt himself flush at their closeness.

"Go to your brother, Killian. He needs you.”

“I will. Just as soon as I know you’re okay.”

Something broke in Emma’s stoic expression. Pain and guilt radiated from her bright eyes. “How can I be okay?” Tears glistened in her eyes, and Killian watched, his heart aching, as two crystalline drops fell, carving wet tracks down her cheek. “What kind of daughter can’t stand to have her own father touch her?” she whispered, her voice vibrating with emotion. “He’d never hurt me. I _know_ that. But I just couldn’t…” She swallowed, scrubbing away more tears, and Killian quietly handed her his handkerchief. She dabbed at her face, murmuring thanks.

“The kind of daughter who’s been traumatized because she was ill treated and abused by someone she thought she could trust,” Killian finally said in a gentle tone. “She shouldn’t blame herself. Her father doesn’t. Neither do I. It isn’t her fault.”

“I don’t want to live like this,” she sniffed, “always on edge around men, even my own father.”

“It will get better. You have to give it time.”

“Maybe,” she conceded. “But I think…I think I need more than that.”

“Someone to talk to?” he suggested. “Like Ariel?”

“I don’t know,” she sniffed again. “Maybe. I don’t know what I need, Killian. I just know that living like this, like am right now, isn’t working. What happened with my father illustrated that plainly. Maybe I’ve grown more comfortable with you and this situation, but I’m still living in fear, deep down.”

It pained Killian enormously to hear her say that, and yet her words had the ring of truth. While Emma had made great strides in many ways during the weeks they had been married, he wasn’t a fool. This wasn’t the type of wound one healed from in a matter of weeks or even months. Wounds to the spirit, like people, were more complicated than that. It could take years before Emma came to a place where she felt whole again.

“What do you think we should do?” he asked with quiet sincerity.

“I don’t know. But I need…something. Something to help me so I’m not always living in fear of someone brushing up against me at the wrong moment, or of hyperventilating when I have to dance with a foreign dignitary or something.” Smiling crookedly, she said, “I don’t think faking the vapors will work in this situation.”

“No,” he said, “but you are expecting a child. You have needs right now that you don’t normally have. Or at least not to the same degree. You may as well take full advantage of that fact, Emma.”

“You mean use my pregnancy to excuse some of my... behavior?” she said thoughtfully.

“Well, it’s not entirely a lie, if everything your parents have told me to expect is true.”

Her eyes narrowed, and Killian could have kicked himself. “What have they been saying? When was this? Before or after we were engaged?”

“Just that pregnant women can be… unpredictable.”

“I am not unpredictable!” she huffed.

He snorted. It wasn’t the wisest response, he knew, but he simply couldn’t help it. “Ah, so you’re wholly predictable then?” he asked with a lift of his eyebrows.

Her face scrunched up as she realized the conundrum she’d just walked into. “Well—no,” she admitted grudgingly, “but…” Growling softly, she shook her head in exasperation. “Don’t you have a brother to visit?”

“Aye,” he agreed. “Just give some thought to what I said. As for the rest, have you considered talking to your mother?”

“My mother?” she echoed with an uncomfortable expression. “I don’t know, Killian. She already treats me like I’m made of glass, ever since...” She took a deep breath. “Knowing all the details might push her over the edge and make it worse.”

“Not like that,” he amended. “I just meant that if you need someone to speak to about all of this, she might know someone trustworthy that you’d feel safe with.”

“Oh.” Her brow wrinkled as she considered this. “I hadn’t thought of that,” she said softly. “Maybe I’ll, um, ask her later.”

“Good.” He hesitated a moment before he continued, “Emma, I know your feelings about the baby are conflicted, but we need to consider the fact that I might not see you for a while. I don’t want to risk transmitting anything to you or the baby.”

Her expression became stricken. “I hadn’t thought of that, either.”

“I thought of it quite a bit on the journey back,” he admitted. “I don’t like to leave you like this, when we haven’t even settled into our new home. Is there someone that can stay with you for company while I’m gone?”

“Well, there are always some of the servants,” she said dubiously. “But I don’t need someone to stay with me, Killian. I’ll be fine on my own."

“For five minutes, maybe,” he smiled. “Then you’ll be up trying to move furniture and standing on stools to hang pictures in order to stave off boredom. Humor me, Emma. Let me get someone to stay with you. Then if you must have the furniture moved, someone else can take care of it for you.”

“Fine,” she said grudgingly. “But who?”

“What about Belle?”

“She probably would if I asked,” Emma agreed after a moment of reflection.

“And you would be comfortable with that?”

“I think so.”

“Good,” he said with satisfaction. “Then let’s send for her and see what we can arrange.”

* * *

It was nearly dusk before all the arrangements were made and Killian finally saw his brother. Despite his very real concerns that Emma would overexert or injure herself in her condition, he hadn’t been entirely truthful with his wife about his reasons for wanting her to have company while he was away. No matter how brave a face Emma tried to put on, Neal still hadn’t been caught, and he suspected they would both rest easier knowing that someone was present with Emma at all times in case the bastard dared darken her doorstep again. Belle had always struck him as a capable sort of woman, and very observant. If anything out of the ordinary happened, Killian could count on her to take appropriate action.

Leaving Emma wasn’t easy, particularly after they’d just returned from their honeymoon, but he felt a lot less anxious about it, knowing that Belle was staying with her.

“Liam,” Killian murmured, settling into a chair beside the bed his brother was confined to, “it’s Killian.” His elder brother stirred, but remained slumbering. Killian didn’t press further. According to the court physician, rest and plenty of fluids were the only things to be done for him now that the fever had turned toxic, other than a dose of laudanum now and then. The uncomfortable fact of the matter was that they could do little else but wait and watch and hope for the best.

Studying his brother’s deeply jaundiced countenance, Killian’s worry deepened. Many members of their crew had been struck with mild forms of the illness, and were on the mend. And so had Liam seemed to be, the physician has informed him sadly, until a couple of days ago, when his symptoms returned with a vengeance.

Two members of their crew that had suffered a similar fate were now dead.

Picking up a pitcher from the washstand, Killian poured some water into a basin and dipped a rag into it. Squeezing the excess moisture from it, he pressed it to his brother’s feverish brow. He tried to tell himself that it might do his brother some good. That if he kept his brother comfortable and cared for, he couldn’t possibly lose him.

“I don’t know if you can hear me, Liam,” Killian said after a while, as he applied another compress to his brother’s forehead, “but you look like hell. Get better and do something about that, would you?” he joked in vain, trying to keep despair at bay.

Liam stirred again, his eyes fluttering open for a moment. Yellowed eyes peered at him uncomprehendingly for a fraction of a minute, then fluttered closed again as Liam sighed.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Killian decided. It was a sign. It must be. He was simply unwilling to consider otherwise.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	14. Chapter 14

Emma found the first night apart from her new husband a more difficult experience than she had imagined. Sleep wasn’t at all the easy task that it seemed to be for her interim roommate, Belle. Emma’s belly had swollen just enough to make lying on her back too uncomfortable (and on her stomach just plain impossible), so she spent the night rolling from one side to the other while she worried about Liam. She didn’t know him all that well; Killian had been the one whose company she had sought and hoped for. Captain Jones had simply been the kindly older brother, whom she saw at the occasional state meeting or public function. Emma, in the foolish self-involvement of her adolescence, hadn’t bothered to develop any sort of relationship with him beyond that. How foolish not to do so, she berated herself, particularly after her mother became ill.

Now he was her brother-in-law, and she had so many more reasons to get to know him than simple convenience or advantage in the eventual running of the Enchanted Forest. And she might never get the chance to do so.

She slipped out of her bed, fumbling in the dark for her slippers. Using the poster of her new bed to steady herself, Emma quietly cursed her increasing clumsiness. If she was this awkward at a mere four months or so of pregnancy, what on earth would she be like at eight months, or nine? Pushing that thought to the back of her mind, along with the unbidden images of Killian holding their baby, Emma wrapped herself in a dressing gown and tied it shut above her belly. Belle stirred in her bed across the room, and Emma stared over at her for several moments, sorely tempted to sneak out of the room and wander about the palace on her own. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d taken an illicit jaunt in the middle of the night. But Killian had arranged to have Belle stay with her for a reason. And it was a good reason; she knew it as well as he did, even if they hadn’t spoken of it in so many words. She couldn’t break Killian’s trust like that and wander off, Emma decided. If this marriage was going to work in any form, she couldn’t run roughshod over him and destroy the tenuous faith in each other that was blossoming between them.

Grumbling to herself, Emma shuffled over to Belle’s side, unable to even vent her frustrations with a good petulant stomp. With her luck, she’d fall on her face and hurt herself and the baby. “Belle,” she sighed, feeling a little guilty at disturbing the other woman’s slumber, “wake up.”

She woke easily when Emma shook her, an apparent light sleeper despite earlier appearances. “What’s wrong?” she demanded, sitting up in bed. “Is it the baby? Liam?”

“No, nothing that serious,” Emma admitted. “I can’t sleep, and I need to get out of this room for a while. I thought…well, Killian would want me to wake you.”

“I see.” Emma might have imagined it, the room was still quite dark, but she thought Belle’s expression shifted from sleepy to thoughtful. “Are you hungry?” she finally asked, sliding out of the bed. She lit the lamp on her bedside table and reached for her dressing gown. “It’s been a long time since I’ve indulged in a middle of the night treat, but I can prepare something for us in the kitchens. Maybe some warm milk to go with it, to help you sleep.”

“Actually,” Emma said haltingly, “I wondered if you might take me to the library.”

Belle paused in the act of cinching her robe shut, her expression torn between delight and suspicion. “Is that a trick question?”

* * *

 Cast in moonlight and mystery, the library at night was one of Emma’s favorite places. She’d spent many an evening in her adolescence curled in some cozy nook or corner, exploring dusty tomes and gilded books alike. It was her secret, private time—sacred and inviolable. But more and more, as Emma grew older, she found herself retreating to the library to think rather than to read. And sometimes, to indulge her dreams…

_Strong hands pressed against her hips, nudging her backward into one of the bookshelves. The sound of fluttering paper and thudding volumes registered only dimly with Emma as she arched her back in response to the kisses being trailed down the curve of her neck. “Killian,” she whimpered as he sucked at a tender spot along her collarbone, sending a jolt of electric pleasure straight through her. He slid the bodice of her gown down to her waist, exposing her bosom. “Oh gods,” she gasped, as his fingers administered an exquisite and torturous pleasure that ignited a throbbing fire between her thighs, leaving breathless for several moments. “Don’t stop,” she begged as he pulled away, his blue eyes glinting silver and coal in the semi-dark library._

_“Never,” he swore, sinking to his knees before her, after removing the last vestiges of her dress. “The fun is just beginning—“_

“Emma!”

By the time she recovered enough to get her bearings and realize that none of it was real, that her remembered fantasy was just that, Emma almost didn’t notice the heightened awareness and coiled tension of her own body. A mixture of horror, shame, and relief flowed through her. Neal hadn’t completely broken her.

“Are you all right?” Belle watched her with concern, staring down at her from the ladder she was perched upon. She squinted at Emma in the light of the lantern she held aloft. “You look flushed. Maybe we’d better go back. You might be getting ill. Maybe I should send for Killian-“

“No!” she shouted. “I mean, um,” she struggled to say in a normal tone, “I’m fine. Just lost in thought.”

 “Mmm,” Belle said noncommittally. “So which volume of poetry was it that we’re looking for again?”

“The one by that Arendelle poet Elsa recommended,” Emma reminded her, forcing herself to re-focus on their task instead of the aching need that screamed at her to find release. It would fade eventually, she knew from experience, if ignored. That she didn’t entirely wish to ignore it frightened and disgusted her.

_Do you fuck yourself when you read his book?_

The words slapped across her thoughts as surely as if Neal had stood before her and slapped her physically. Her eyes snapped shut as her breathing became spasmodic.

_You do, don’t you?_

Perspiration broke out on her arms and face, and Emma reached out blindly to steady herself. Nausea overwhelmed her, and she doubled over, both wishing and dreading to be sick.

Warm, gentle hands gripped her shoulders with quiet strength and guided her to a chair. “Sit,” Belle’s voice commanded with quiet authority. Emma obeyed mutely, ashamed that her old tutor had to see her in such a state. Belle settled into a chair next to her. “You re-lived it, didn’t you?”

“Part of it,” she admitted hoarsely.

Belle was quiet for several moments. “Do you want me to fetch Killian?” she finally asked.

“No,” she said with a firm shake of her head. “He needs to be with his brother right now. I can’t take that from him. Besides, what if the baby or I ended up sick, too?”

“You’re right,” Belle sighed. “I just thought—”

“What?”

“Nothing, it’s not important.” She stood up, offering her hand to help Emma up. “Come,” she said with a worried smile, “let me at least take you to the kitchens and make you a cup of tea. Or maybe you’d like a cup of warm broth instead?”

 _Warm broth?_ Emma thought. That _did_ sound like a tempting indulgence at this time of night. And perhaps, she thought with a spark of hope, standing up, it could help lull her to sleep at last. “What about the book?” she wondered as Belle led her out of the library.

“We’ll pick it up on the way back,” the other woman reassured her. They stepped out into the darkened corridor outside the library, and Belle paused to lock the door. “It’s a lovely choice, by the way,” she said, securing the room from intrusion. “I’m sure he’ll enjoy it very much.”

“I hope so,” Emma admitted with an odd twinge of shyness as they set off toward the kitchens. “I don’t really know what his tastes are. We haven’t gotten a chance to know each other very well.”

“Liam’s a dear,” Belle smiled, “very much like Killian. He doesn’t haunt the library as much as Killian always has, of course—“ She shot a secretive smile at Emma that puzzled her, “--but he enjoys stopping by now and then. His tastes generally run to history and geography and other practical subjects, but I’ve seen him borrow the occasional book of poetry or fiction, so I don’t think he’ll find the volume distasteful. Besides,” she said rounding a corner, “the important thing isn’t what’s read to him, Emma, it’s that he knows there are people who care about him. And what better way to say “I love you” than with a book? That’s always been my philosophy,” she grinned.

Emma’s mind flashed to all of the books she’d received from her anonymous admirer through the years. What was it Belle had said? Killian used to haunt the library frequently?

 _No, that’s stupid,_ she told herself before the thought could even fully form. Real life didn’t work that way. It wasn’t some fairy tale--as she had more than ample cause to know. And spending a lot of time in a library didn’t mean anything, except that her new husband liked books—a fact which made her all the more tolerably disposed to making the marriage work. _He_ wouldn’t expect her to give up her books for him; no, Killian Jones was the sort of man that would settle down to read with her or alongside her, not make demands to be the sole object of her attention, as Neal had.

“You know, Belle,” Emma said, feeling a little less ill than before, “I think you may be on to something with that philosophy of yours.”


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Okay, so I was just a liiiiiiiittle bit delusional to think to myself that I would be able to crank this chapter out about a week after the last update. But it’s done, it’s here, and it’s incredibly long because so many important things happen and get set in motion in this chapter. I’m starting to tie some things together and fill in some pieces, finally, of questions people have been asking me from the very beginning. I hope this chapter meets your expectations, because I have been planning it for such a long, long time and I’m excited for people to finally read some of these things. Enjoy!
> 
> (Also, I am not a medical doctor, nor have I any medical training, so if things aren’t quite accurate or entirely realistic, chalk it up to things being different in the Enchanted Forest. I tried; research only carries you so far sometimes.)

 

That Liam had not shown any obvious improvement by morning’s first light was only a small disappointment to Killian. As much as he might have cherished the hope, deep down, that his words last night might have affected Liam enough to recover, the reality of it all was that people did not recover from dire illnesses overnight. Still, Killian took comfort in the fact that Liam hadn’t noticeably worsened, either. For now, his condition seemed to be stable, and Killian was more than grateful for it. He wasn’t about to take any chances with his brother’s health, however. Noting that the fire he’d started last night had turned to ashes while they slept, Killian pried himself out of the chair, ignoring the protests of his stiff muscles, to build a new one.

He rocked back on his heels a few minutes later, satisfied with the small blaze he’d ignited, and heard the clear, high-pitched notes of a flute being played. The melody was bright and cheerful, its tempo upbeat, and while Killian might have enjoyed it under normal circumstances, this morning it only irritated him. “What the bloody hell?” he muttered. Didn’t the household staff know there was a gravely ill man down this corridor? How could they be so inconsiderate?

He crossed the room, yanking open the door, intent on giving somebody hell about it, and saw Belle retreating around a corner at the end of the corridor. “Wait!” he called, his heart frozen with fear for his wife. “Come back!”

“Take the tray!” her voice yelled back. “The note will explain everything!”

“Tray?” he wondered. Killian peered around until he spied it sitting on a narrow table against one wall of the corridor. He approached it warily, uncertain what to expect from the covered silver tray. Picking it up with care, Killian shuffled back to the room and set the tray on Liam’s bedside table. He stared at it for several moments, reminding himself to be rational, and that if there were anything seriously wrong with Emma or the baby, Belle would have stayed to speak with him in person.

He closed the door to the bedchamber, though he didn’t suppose it mattered much at the moment. No one frequented this area of the palace much at present, save for himself and Liam, or the occasional servant seeing to their needs. Lifting the lid of the large silver tray, Killian surveyed its contents with curiosity. A small package, wrapped in simple brown paper and bound with twine lay next to a covered porcelain bowl, with a note tucked underneath it. Killian uncovered the bowl; the lovely aroma of chicken and spices filled the air, making his stomach growl with eager anticipation. Replacing the lid, he picked up the package. A volume of poetry lay beneath the paper wrappings when he opened it, and he laid it aside on the small table, his interest piqued. Although Belle had been the one who had delivered the tray and its contents, Killian would wager his last gold crown that Emma was the one responsible for all of it.

The thought warmed his heart, lifting his unhappy spirits, and he reached for the note, unfolding it.

_Killian,_ the letter began without preamble, _Belle wouldn’t let me come up to the wing to deliver this myself, even after promising I wouldn’t actually set foot down the corridor myself—_

“Thank you, Belle,” he murmured with approval, glad that that he’d made the right choice in his companion for Emma while he was away.

_—so she offered to deliver it in my stead._

He would have to do something very nice for Belle to show his appreciation after all of this concluded, Killian decided. She needn’t have brought it herself. There were designated servants who could have delivered it just easily. Which, he realized, his stubborn wife had probably refused.

_The broth is for Liam,_ the letter continued. _Belle and I made it fresh this morning. I don’t know if it will help Liam recover any faster, or even if you’ll be able to wake him to eat any, but it always helped_ me _feel better whenever Mother made it for me when I was ill. (I’m having something more substantial sent up for you, just as soon as it’s ready, so don’t get any ideas about sampling that broth, Killian Jones!)_

_I picked out the book of poetry for both of you. It’s on loan from the library, so don’t spill anything on it or Belle will have both of our heads! My friend Elsa recommended it to me once. Did you ever meet her? I don’t recall. No matter. You’ll meet her at the wedding reception when my parents reschedule it, I suppose._

Reschedule? Killian thought with confusion. Oh, of course. Liam. It only made sense, of course. They couldn’t risk passing anything on to other people, especially Emma or the baby, while Liam was still ill. Their wedding reception ball would have to wait.

_Anyway, I thought the poems about Arendelle were quite beautiful,_ Emma’s tidy scrawl went on, _and I thought you could read them to Liam. Maybe he would enjoy hearing them._

Reading between the lines of her letter, he surmised that Emma had also sent the book so that it would give him something to occupy himself with, other than fret over the state of his brother’s health. He appreciated her thoughtfulness. It reminded him very much of Queen Snow, and no matter how much Emma thought that she took after her own father more than her mother, Killian wasn’t so certain. Snow had left a strong stamp of influence on Emma, too—more subtle, perhaps, but it was present nonetheless.

_Please give Liam my warmest regards and best wishes for his health,_ Emma wrote at the close of her letter, _and take care of yourself, too, Killian. Eat and get plenty of rest. I don’t wish to become a widow so soon after my own honeymoon. Can you imagine what the court gossips would say then? They still aren’t recovered from the scandal of my pregnancy and sudden marriage. Your unfortunate demise—at my hands, of course, because I’ll have somehow managed it from all the way across the palace, you know—might be more than they can handle. Take care, if only for their sakes!_

_Emma_

Killian chuckled in amusement. That Emma could manage so much humor at the end of her letter reassured him that she was doing well enough herself, and eased his mind a little about leaving her. He could rest easier in knowing it, which was, he was certain, entirely the point of her writing it.

He folded the letter back up and carefully placed it with the volume of poetry, making a mental note to send a reply back to Emma that afternoon. “All right, Liam,” Killian told his brother with determination, moving to his bedside, “wake up, you lazy sod. You’re getting the royal treatment this morning—quite literally, I might add. Emma made you some broth with her own two hands, and it’s not going to taste half as good as it smells, if it gets cold.”

* * *

Over the next two days, Liam’s health remained in stasis, neither worsening nor improving, despite all of Killian’s valiant efforts to improve his brother’s condition. He kept the room comfortably warm and free of drafts; he applied cool compresses to Liam’s feverish forehead and read to him while he slept; and he woke his brother at regular intervals to spoon feed him the broth that Emma kept sending up. That none of this seemed to make a damned bit of difference frustrated Killian, and he slept fitfully at his brother’s side every night, fearful that he might lose Liam if he dared to truly slumber.

The irony that Liam Jones finally woke to full awareness when Killian dozed off one afternoon in the middle of reading to him was not lost on him.

“Killian?”

Startling awake at the sound of his name, he dropped the book in his lap. “Liam!” He sprang from his chair and felt his brother’s forehead. It was cool and damp, the fever finally broken. Relief swept through him. “Thank the gods,” he whispered hoarsely.

“Water?” Liam begged hoarsely.

“Of course.” He moved over to the washstand and poured some into a glass. Returning to Liam’s side, he elevated his weakened brother’s head and helped him drink. “How long have you been awake?” he asked, after Liam had indicated he’d had enough.

“Not sure,” came the soft reply as Killian turned away.

“What’s the last thing you remember?” he asked, returning to the washstand. Killian placed the glass next to the carafe, and began washing his hands in a small washing bowl. Perhaps it was unnecessary, even overly zealous, to wash his hands after every interaction with Liam, as if he were a leper, but the last thing Killian wanted to do was make his pregnant wife or baby sick. He wouldn’t be able to forgive himself if they contracted something because he had been careless. Given that even the doctors didn’t understand how yellow fever was contracted, it was difficult to say how contagious Killian might be after spending time in such close quarters with his ailing brother, and Killian had decided early on that he would take every precaution he could think of to prevent passing it on to his family if he could. If that meant washing his hands until they bled, or keeping himself in further seclusion after Liam recovered, then so be it.

A slow, drawn out sigh issued from Liam. Killian turned toward his brother, anticipating the familiar annoyed look his older brother got when asked a question that required a complicated answer, but found him sound asleep instead. Perhaps he shouldn’t have been surprised. Liam still needed a great deal of rest while he recovered and built up his strength, he reminded himself. Tucking the blankets up around his brother’s shoulders to protect him from chill, Killian settled onto the small pallet he’d built for himself on the floor at the foot of Liam’s bed. Although he knew that he should take advantage of the opportunity to rest again, middle of the afternoon or not, Killian found himself wondering what Emma was doing at that very moment. In the short time they had been married, he had grown used to her constant presence, and he found it strange not to see her during tea, or lie near her in the same bed each night.

He rolled over onto his side, exhaling as worry clouded his mind. Was Emma still taking her daily walks with Belle, the walks she usually took Killian, or was she neglecting her exercise? Did she have nightmares when she slept? Was she eating and drinking enough? Did she feel his absence at all, or was she indifferent to it?

In the silence and stillness of the room, Killian admitted to himself that he wanted her to miss him.

Rolling over onto his stomach, Killian buried his face in the pillow with a sigh of frustration. If he didn’t get his mind off of Emma, he was never going to get any sleep. Sleep he badly needed, after days of irregular and fitful rest at Liam’s side. But the hell of it all was that he didn’t want to stop thinking about her. He never did. That was his whole damned problem. It always had been. It was why he’d sent her the anonymous presents every year on her birthday; why he’d never quite let go of the anticipation he felt when he knew he might see her. Why it had hurt so damned much when she’d gone and fallen in love with Neal. And why, gods above, it had broken his heart and soul into pieces when he’d learned of the horror that had happened to Emma...

_Incoherent shouting and the sound of breaking glass woke Killian from a fitful slumber in his private cabin. Adrenaline pumped through him, wakening him to a state of tense alertness. Reaching for his trousers, Killian hurried to dress himself. A wolf howled in the distance, surprisingly close. Footsteps pounded past his door, punctuated by more shouting. What in gods’ names was going on? They were docked in the harbor, where it should have been safe, but it sounded as if they were under attack. “Damn Regina and damn her bloody huntsmen,” he cursed, pulling on his shirt and vest. What were they up to now? And didn’t they ever bloody sleep like normal people?_

_A feral growl startled Killian as he reached for his sword and scabbard on his bedside table._

_“Killian!” Liam’s voice shouted, followed by the sound of splintering wood and a bone-chilling howl. Then, “Stand down, mates! Stay back!”_

_There was a scrabbling sound down the hallway, and Killian’s hair stood up on the back of his neck in foreboding as the unmistakable howl of a wolf on the hunt sounded. The sound of claws scraping against wood drew uncomfortably near, and Killian unsheathed his sword, Liam’s shouts a dull, distant roar in his ears. Reaching for the door, Killian tried to ignore the hard, fast beating of his own heart as he prepared to face Regina’s latest horror._

_THUMP! CRACK!_

_Killian stumbled backward, startled by the unexpected assault, and lost his grip on his sword. It fell with a deafening thump onto the floorboards._

_CRACK! THUMP! CRACK!_

_“Killian!” Liam shouted, his voice much nearer now. “Killian, open the gods damned door before it tears my whole damned ship apart!”_

Open the door? _Killian thought in confusion as the assault on his door intensified._

_THUMP!THUMP!CRACK!  THUMP!THUMP!CRACK!_

_Splinters flew out of the wood and fell to the floor in a shower as the door started to give way to the great beast on the other side of it._

_“THAT IS AN ORDER, LIEUTENANT!” Liam bellowed._

_Yanking the door open before he could spare a moment to talk himself out of it, a dark, hulking figure slammed into him, bowling him over. Killian ground his teeth together, using every ounce of willpower not to make a sound as the enormous black wolf trampled on him. Two large, sharply clawed paws pinned his shoulders to the floor as the beast sniffed him with prolonged interest. For what purpose, Killian hardly knew, but at least its intent didn’t seem hostile._

_The wolf climbed off of him several long moments later, settling onto its haunches, and woofed at him, low and sharp. Killian eased into a sitting position, watching his unusual visitor with wary curiosity. “Liam, do you mind telling me what the bloody hell is going on?” he demanded between gritted teeth as the wolf leapt to its feet again and barked._

_“Ask your guest.” Liam jerked his head toward the wolf, which had begun pacing back and forth across the short length of Killian’s cabin. “It damn near tore my ship apart trying to get to you.”_

_Killian focused his gaze on the wolf, who lunged at him with a bark. Strong jaws closed around his wrist, and Killian felt the needlelike pinch of its teeth and its humid breath upon his skin. It was several panicked moments before Killian realized that he wasn’t bleeding. “What on earth?” he muttered, peering at the wolf through narrowed eyes. Something wasn’t right about this creature. Its behavior was certainly abnormal, and yet it didn’t seem rabid, either._

_A low growl startled Killian from his musings. The wolf tugged his wrist again._

_“I think it wants you to accompany it somewhere,” Liam decided, still observing from the doorway._

_“Don’t be daft,” Killian protested._

_The wolf released his wrist and snarled at him, showing its fangs. Killian fully expected it to bark at him again, but the wolf circled behind him instead and shoved the weight of its great hulking form against Killian’s back, as if it intended to shove him to their destination._

_“All right, I’m going,” he sighed, pushing to his feet. Killian retrieved his cutlass and sheathed it, checking to make sure it was secure. He peered down at the wolf, who wagged its tail and then leapt toward the doorway, almost knocking Liam over in its haste._

_“This is mad,” he muttered to himself as he followed the wolf._

_“Perhaps,” Liam said, matching his strides with Killian’s, “but if it’s madness this night holds in store, I’ll see it through with you, brother.”_

_They left the second mate, Owens, in charge of the Jewel and its crew, and set off after the wolf. The creature set a brisk pace that wasn’t quite a run, leading them toward the forest; wherever it was leading them, whatever its purpose, haste was necessary, but the fact that the wolf didn’t break into a run seemed to indicate that the situation wasn’t quite an emergency. Or perhaps, Killian decided, it simply didn’t want to lose them in the woods before it could lead them to its mysterious destination._

_“How much farther, do you think?” Liam wondered in a low tone, holding the lantern aloft as he carefully stepped over a fallen log._

_“Search me,” Killian answered, “We’d have to know where we’re going, first. This is my first experience traipsing through the woods in the dead of night after a wolf broke down my door and insisted I follow it.”_

_“Point taken,” his brother answered. “Makes me rather wonder at your sanity,” he added with a smirk._

_Killian shot his brother a dark look, unappreciative of Liam’s twisted sense of humor. He nearly reminded his brother that it hadn’t been his idea to invite the wolf into his cabin or follow it out to gods knew where, thank you very much, but he decided that would only give Liam the satisfaction of knowing he’d gotten under Killian’s skin._

_Something between a bark and a snarl diverted Killian from his thoughts. He squinted in the darkness, just able to make out the great hulking form of the beast as it crouched near something—no, some_ one _, he realized—lying on the ground several feet away. The wolf nosed the still form and whined. Killian felt, rather than saw, the wolf’s anxious desperation as it peered at them through the darkness of the forest._

_“Who’s that, then?” Liam crooned to the wolf, edging close. He lifted the lantern, trying to get a better view before he ventured too close. There was the chance, however small, that they had been lured into an elaborate ambush. Goodness knew Killian and Liam had made enough enemies during their naval careers. Dismissed and disgraced officers always seemed to cast blame for their misfortunes anywhere but on their own shoulders._

_“Gods above!” Liam exclaimed with sudden horror as the lantern illumined a dirty, rag-covered figure with a wealth of blonde hair._

_Killian’s heart seized up. This was a mistake, he told himself. A bad dream. It couldn’t really be happening. That couldn’t be her, his Emma, lying prone on the ground, with her shredded clothes telling a horrific tale._

_“It’s the princess! Killian, give me your jacket!”_

_He shucked it off, feeling numb, and handed it to his brother. Liam took the jacket and made as if to cover the exposed form of the princess, but the wolf jumped forward, snapping at him. “Killian,” Liam said softly, giving him an odd look, “I think you had better do it.”_

_Taking back the jacket from his brother, Killian squatted on the ground, considering the wolf that hovered by Emma so protectively. It was now abundantly clear that his suspicions regarding the wolf had been accurate. Killian tucked any further speculations about the wolf’s origin away to mull over at a later date, and held out the jacket for the wolf. “Take it,” he offered. “For Emma.” The wolf sniffed at the jacket briefly and gingerly took the cloth between its teeth. Turning toward the princess, it draped the fabric over Emma at an awkward angle and then turned toward Killian with grateful eyes._

_“Liam,” he said quietly, “we should notify the queen.” Killian couldn’t begin to imagine breaking such news to Emma’s parents, but it had to be done. They would be able to quietly arrange for her care in ways that better protected her privacy, as well as preserve any relevant evidence necessary to pursue the matter legally. “And Emma needs to be seen by a physician.”_

_“I’ll take care of it,” he offered gravely. “I’ll go to the palace first. The queen will want to send her personal physician, no doubt. You stay here with the princess. Keep watch, in case whoever did this is still around and tries to come back and do worse.”_

_The wolf chuffed its approval. Turning in a circle, it laid down next to Emma. Killian, watching his brother’s retreating form, settled down onto an old, fallen log and made no move to approach Emma. The last thing he wished to do was frighten or traumatize her further. Awakening to find a man hovering over her after the kind of experience she’d evidently been through would only make things worse. But Killian intended to stay nearby if she needed him; he would never leave her alone in such a vulnerable state any more than he would ever hurt her. He would give his very life to protect her if need be…_

Killian awoke several hours later, confused and disoriented. He gazed around the dusk-darkened room. When had he fallen asleep? The last thing he remembered was lying on the floor, worrying about Emma. Had he dreamed the memory of that awful night they’d found her in the woods, or had his drowsy mind retrieved the memory as he lay half-asleep? Killian didn’t really know. Nor did he care. But there was one thing of which he was quite certain: he desperately needed to see Emma, to talk to her, to reassure himself that she was all right. That she was safe, and far away from the monster who had hurt her.

To seek her company thus would be enormously selfish, however. Killian would not only be endangering his own wife, but also her unborn child. And whether Emma wanted that child or not, Killian would never forgive himself if she lost the baby because of his selfishness. It would only add more trauma and guilt on top of everything else she was dealing with. A letter would have to suffice.

He sat up, throwing back the covers of his makeshift bed. Liam stirred as Killian stood up and walked toward the small desk in one corner of the room, but did not awaken. Removing parchment from one of the drawers, Killian laid it on the desk’s surface, sat down, and reached for the inkwell. Un-stoppering the glass container of dark, viscous liquid, Killian dipped the nib of his pen into it and began to write,

_Dearest Emma_ , he began, before he could over-think it, _I had a strange experience this afternoon, and I need to know that you are well. Please tell me that you are safe, that you are eating well and taking proper rest. I could not bear it if—_

He hesitated, his hand hovering over the page. Drops of blue-black ink dripped onto the page while he dithered, uncertain of himself. To declare all that he felt about her in this letter would only frighten her off. More to the point, Killian wasn’t yet prepared to confess his long-held feelings for her, much less in something so impersonal as a letter. Love was something to be illustrated in person, face-to-face, where Killian could minimize any doubts of his sincerity; it was not something to be written in haste and carelessness, with no regard for Emma’s mood or mental state.

Still, Killian thought, he and Emma had established a tenuous trust with each other; they were making a genuine effort to create a stable, functioning marriage with each other. If they were to succeed, honesty must be a component of their efforts. Killian could not, therefore, lie to her. He cared about her very much, and it would be ridiculous to write such a concerned letter regarding her well being and pretend he didn’t care for her.

But it was not required of him to reveal the full depth of his feelings. 

_I could not bear it if you became as ill as my brother has been,_ he finished. _Liam’s fever has finally broken, and he is quite weakened, but, thank the gods above, he will recover. Thank you once again for the concern you have shown for him, and the care you have provided for Liam in sending both broth andliterary entertainments. I can never thank you enough._

Liam stirred again, awakening as Killian signed the letter. “Killian?” came the exhausted rasp. “Water?”

A flute trilled in the distance and Killian’s heart skipped a beat. “Give me a moment, and I’ll have something better than that,” he promised. He picked up the letter he had just penned and crossed the room quickly, hoping to catch Belle before she disappeared again. Prying the door open, Killian was just in time to see her retreating figure round the corner at the far end of the hall to leave. “Belle!” he called. “Wait! I’ve something for Emma.”

Belle poked her head around the corner, peering at him, and Killian was glad to see that she was wearing a cloth over her nose and face. It pleased him that she was taking extra precautions not to spread Liam’s illness to Emma or the baby. Belle had always had very good sense. “What is it?” her slightly muffled voice asked. “Another letter?”

He nodded. “I’ll leave it in place of the tray.” He thanked her again for her help and took the covered tray back to the room, hoping that his brother had not fallen back to sleep again.

Liam was indeed awake when Killian returned, although it appeared that it was taking significant effort on his brother’s part, given the way his eyes fluttered open and closed from time to time.

“Beef broth,” Killian revealed, taking the lid off of the tray. He picked up a spoon and carefully lifted the bowl of steaming liquid. He cooled a spoonful of the broth and then offered it to his brother. Liam accepted it without comment, but his eyes seemed a bit brighter after he tasted the liquid. Killian readied the next spoonful and patiently fed his elder brother, neither of them making any attempt at conversation. Liam was simply too fatigued, and Killian had nothing he wished to say.

When Liam had eaten his fill, Killian set the remainder of the broth aside (he had managed to get about half of the liquid into his brother; it wasn’t nearly as much as he would have liked, but Liam’s appetite would improve with his strength) and settled into the chair at his brother’s bedside. Liam closed his eyes with a deep sigh, and Killian watched him for a time, reflecting on just how closely he had come to losing his only family.

No, not his only family, he realized. Not anymore. There was Emma now, and the baby. Emma’s parents. But Liam had been his only family member for so long that it was still a reflex to think of him as such. Perhaps he needed to put forth a bit more effort into integrating himself into the Charming family now that he and Emma had returned from their honeymoon. The course of their engagement had been so hurried and busy that he really hadn’t been able to do that in the way he would have liked. No wonder he was having trouble adjusting to the idea that his family had expanded beyond his brother. They had not really had a chance to function much as a family yet.

Watching his brother’s steady breathing, Killian reached for one of the books on loan from the library and paged through it until he found where he had left off. He began reading in a quiet, clear voice, and tried to distract himself from the thread of doubt that was weaving itself through his mind. What if, despite his care to couch his feelings for Emma in the sort of familial concern he felt for his brother, his words caused a relapse of her trauma, much like the innocent hug of her own father? Had he ruined the delicate bond of intimacy that had formed between them?

“Not that one,” Liam’s voice cracked, interrupting Killian.

“I beg your pardon?” He blinked at his brother in surprise. He hadn’t realized Liam was still awake.

“The other one,” Liam continued, the effort of speaking evident in the unnatural pauses between his words, “about Arendelle.”

“I returned that one the other day,” Killian admitted with a frown, before he realized that Liam had been aware, at least some of the time, in his state of unconsciousness. “I did not know you even heard me read it to you. But I am certain that Belle would lend it to us again if we asked.” He set the book he had been reading aside. It was a history book, the sort of reading Liam generally liked when he was well, but perhaps a bit tedious and dry when one was confined to the bed. Perhaps Liam would enjoy it better once he gained back some of his strength and good spirits. “I have another book here,” he told his brother. “Emma picked this one out, too.” He launched into a brief summary of the plot, and Liam nodded his approval. Killian made a mental note to request more poetry and fiction for his brother’s entertainment as he recovered.

Liam rolled over in the bed to listen, grimacing with the effort required.

“You should let me help,” Killian chided, adjusting his brother’s pillows and smoothing the covers into place again.

“I’m fine,” Liam snapped, startling him. “Just...read,” he said in a quieter tone. “Please.”

Killian picked up the book again, watching his brother over the top of the pages. Seeing Liam curled up thus, waiting to hear him read, reminded him of when they were lads curled in their beds to listen to their mother read. It was a luxury largely left behind during their first grueling years at sea; they had simply been too overworked and too exhausted to read during the little spare time they had been afforded. Perhaps that was the reason that he and Liam both made a point to visit the palace library on a somewhat regular basis now that their rank and duties afforded them more freedom. And certainly Liam made of a point of working his crew hard, but not so unreasonably as their first captain had worked them; Liam refused to have it on his conscience if his crew’s health suffered under his command, the way his and Killian’s had deteriorated under their first captain’s command for many years. That neither of them had experienced any apparent lasting effects affects from it was astonishing.

Killian read to his brother for a long while, gradually lulling him into a peaceful slumber. A knock sounded on the door, startling him, as he marked their place in the story with an old silk bookmark from his mother. Rising from his chair, he went to the door. “Who is it?” he asked through the door. “This is a sick wing, and I haven’t sent for the doctor.”

“Open the door, Killian,” the queen’s voice ordered, though not unkindly.

He opened the door with haste, frightened at the implications of the queen’s presence in this sick wing. Had his letter upset Emma that much? Was something wrong with the baby? Had Emma become ill herself? He had been as careful as he could, taking care not to transmit any of Liam’s illness to her, but perhaps he had not washed his hands as well as he had thought, and he had transmitted some of it to the letters he had been exchanging with her.

“Your Majesty?” he faltered, staring at his mother-in-law and the tall, blond-haired man that loomed behind her, wearing a quiver of arrows. “Emma,” he breathed, feeling fear squeeze his heart until he could hardly breathe, “What’s wrong?” he finally managed. “Where is she?”

Snow glanced back at the stranger and then said, “Killian, this is Robin. He’s going to take you back to Emma, and I’m going to stay with Liam for a while.”

The nervous sensation Killian had been feeling in the pit of his stomach increased. Under any other circumstance, he might have felt embarrassed at the unsteadiness of his voice, or the way his hands seemed to be shaking. “What—?” he tried. “Emma?”

Queen Snow eyed him with a compassionate expression. “Ruby and Dr. Whale are with her. She’s experiencing a bit of preterm labor.”

Preterm labor? At only four and a half months along? “What happened?” he asked thickly.

“We received word that Neal was spotted along the southern border. He managed to evade capture andcross into Ravenwood Forest. We think he may be seeking sanctuary in Regina’s territory.”

Regina? The implications of that were grim indeed. Killian didn’t like to think what might happen if Neal decided to join forces with Snow’s stepmother. It could bring a civil war to their doorstep—a prospect that Regina would find irresistible, no doubt. Count Goldberg’s loyalty to the crown to the Crown had always been tenuous, even grudging at best.

“Take me to her,” he told the archer.

Robin escorted him across the palace to his apartments with all possible haste, where they found Belle pacing the drawing room floor, her face pale and puckered with worry. “Killian!” she exclaimed when she saw them. “I am so sorry, I—”

“It isn’t your fault,” he reassured her, “You could not have prevented this.” Belle nodded as if she accepted his assessment, but Killian couldn’t miss the guilt and self-doubt reflected in her eyes. He made a mental note to sort that out with her later and followed Belle to Emma’s private bedchamber.

The paleness of her skin shocked him. Emma lay half-propped into a sitting position in her bed, while Dr. Whale’s wife, Ruby Lucas, hovered over Emma protectively, a fierce scowl on her face. A sheen of sweat beaded Emma’s face and arms, and her face was a mask of pain and misery that distressed Killian greatly.

“She’s just coming down off a contraction,” the physician informed Killian as he entered the room.   
“She’s not herself. We have to stop those contractions and soon, or she’s going to lose her baby.”

“Emma,” Killian said urgently, moving to her side as Robin left to patrol their wing of the palace with his band of men. Ruby moved away from the bed, silently allowing Killian to take her place. She joined Belle, who hovered in the doorway, watching with a worried expression.

“Come on,” Ruby said, urging Belle into the drawing room, “we’ll make some tea. We’re all going to need it.”

“Emma,” Killian said gently, “I’m here, darling.”

Her eyes opened, and she stared at him uncomprehendingly for several moments. “Killian?” she finally croaked in confusion. “Are you really here?”

“Yes, of course,” he told her gently as Dr. Whale measured something into a glass of water and stirred, “Why wouldn’t I come if you need me?”

 “Neal,” she sighed, closing her eyes.

“Your mother told me,” he replied gruffly. “There’s increased security all over the palace. You’re safe, Emma. I won’t let anything happen to you, and neither will your parents.”

“The baby,” she whimpered, with tears leaking from her shuttered eyes, “He’s going to find out and take my baby.”

“That’s not going to happen,” Killian told her firmly. “I won’t let anyone take your baby from you.” He eyed the physician, who approached, bearing his liquid concoction. “But right now we need to keep the baby safe inside of you for a while longer, darling. You need to drink the doctor’s medicine.”

Her eyes opened, and she locked gazes with Killian for several long, quiet moments. “Okay,” she agreed quietly, with none of the stubbornness he might have expected under normal circumstances. Her fingers twitched, inching toward his, and Killian accepted the silent invitation.

Emma drank the liquid down with difficulty, spluttering and gagging at the taste. A new contraction began a few minutes later, the medicine not having been in her system long enough to take effect.Killian held her hand through the contraction, uttering soothing words that he never rightly recalled later, while the while the doctor continued to monitor both Emma and the baby.

 “Your Highness,” the doctor said after a long while, as Emma recovered from her third contraction since the medicine, “may I have a word?”

It took Killian several moments to register the fact that the physician was speaking to him, not Emma. Although he knew intellectually that his rank had changed considerably since his marriage to Emma, in practice Killian mostly forgot about it. Of course, there had not been much occasion for him to adjust to it yet, between his extended honeymoon with Emma, and Liam’s illness occupying his attention.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, once he had stepped away from his wife’s bedside to speak privately with the doctor. “Isn’t the medicine working?”

“On the contrary,” Dr. Whale said with a frown, “it’s working beyond my expectations. The contractions are slowing down and moving farther apart, and the baby’s movement is normal for its stage of gestation. I think the real danger is over for now.”

“For now?” he pressed.

“Your wife is unusually tense, even between contractions,” the doctor admitted, casting a worried glance at Emma, who dozed in her bed, exhausted. “Perfectly understandable, under the circumstances, but it concerns me. The longer this level of stress continues, she increases her chances of going into early labor again. Needless to say, we might not be this fortunate in the future. You need to find a way to help your wife relax and get her mind on other things, as much as possible.”

“Of course,” Killian agreed, thinking of the walks they usually took and how they usually put Emma in a better mood. Given the increased security at the palace, they were unlikely to be allowed to wander the grounds without a retinue of heavily armed guards that would only set Emma’s nerves on edge all the more. He would have to find an alternate means of helping to ease Emma’s tensions.

“I’m also putting her on partial bed rest,” the doctor continued, “at least for a few days. That means very light activity, no intercourse, and she needs to stay in bed as much as possible.”

Killian felt his face redden. The intercourse, at least, would not be an issue for them, he thought. Emma’s and his relationship was far from the point where such intimate relations with each other were on the horizon. If it was ever on the horizon at all.

 “—can get up to eat and use the privy,” the doctor was saying, “but the majority of her time should be spent sitting or lying down until I recommend otherwise. She needs to get used to the idea of slowing down and taking things easy during her pregnancy. Anything you can do to lighten her workload or take some of the stress out of her life right now would help. Hire staff if you need to. Just don't let her take on too much.”

“Understood,” Killian agreed. Another thought crossed his mind, and he inquired, “How worried should we be about her contracting Liam’s illness, now that she's been exposed?” They had saved Emma and her baby tonight, and that was something for which Killian was incredibly grateful. But he worried now that he might lose them instead to a danger to which he himself had exposed them.

“It’s difficult to say,” Dr. Whale admitted with a frown. “Without knowing precisely how the disease is contracted, I’m unable to project the likelihood that Emma might contract it. Suffice it to say that, being pregnant, she is more susceptible to illness for the time being. That’s another reason I want her on bed rest for a while. I want to be able to monitor her properly for any symptoms of the Fever, as well as to prevent exposure to anyone else, just to be cautious. We don’t need an epidemic on our hands.”

No, Killian thought, that was one of the very last things they needed. Minimizing the exposure of other people to a disease the doctors did not fully understand was crucial, and he felt a terrible guilt about allowing Queen Snow to convince him to let her care for Liam in his absence.

“Killian, you and Liam have risked your lives time and again to provide me with the unguent I need to keep my own illness from progressing,” the queen had insisted firmly. “Caring for Liam during his illness is the least I can do in return, and I won’t hear any further arguments about it.”

And Killian, despite all of his misgivings, had acquiesced—not because she was the queen, or even because she was his mother-in-law. No, it was because Emma needed him, and he would be damned if he stood around arguing his point while she was in danger or pain.

“The contractions have stopped,” the doctor announced, pulling Killian from his thoughts, “Let her rest as long as she needs, and make sure she gets enough food and drink when she awakens. I’ll stop by in the morning to check in on her and the baby before I check in on your brother.”

“Thank you,” Killian told him with all sincerity as he walked the doctor and his wife out of the apartments.

“Don’t thank me,” the doctor disagreed, “I have little enough to do with it. I can only provide medical care. I can’t give her hope or the will to live. She has to do that for herself. But I’ll tell you one thing: five or six weeks ago, after the kind of trauma she endured, Emma never would have relaxed in a room with one man, let alone two. And she certainly wouldn’t have let herself fall asleep.”

“Goodnight, Killian,” Ruby smiled, her dark eyes sparkling with amusement as she swept out of the door with her husband, red cloak swirling behind her.

“Goodnight,” he returned with a bewildered smile.

 “Killian,” Belle said, coming up behind him, “if you or Emma need _any_ thing...” she trailed off.

 “Thank you,” he told her with genuine appreciation. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

After promising to update Belle on Emma’s health in the morning, Killian pour himself a cup of tea and returned to his wife’s bedchamber. He leaned against the door frame, sipping the warm beverage. He watched Emma’s slow, steady breathing and wondered how he was going to break the doctor’s orders to her when she awoke. He strongly suspected that the news of her temporary confinement would not be met with anything at all resembling good humor or docility. Perhaps he could ask her father to have some paperwork sent over to keep them busy—legal contracts and the like. The work, boring though it was, might help to occupy her mind and keep it off of Neal. Furthermore, giving her light duties would lend Emma a sense of normalcy amidst her confinement and enforced bed rest. Perhaps it would ease her restlessness a bit.

And, if Killian were being particularly honest with himself, he needed to start learning how to help Emma run the kingdom. While aiding Eric in some of his day-to-day affairs at Westensee manor had been enlightening, Killian knew that there were a number of differences in law and procedure between Snow’s kingdom and Eric’s principality. Killian needed to learn how things were handled here in the Enchanted Forest, and there was no sense in putting it off, even if he did feel wholly inadequate to the task. Emma needed him.

Loosening his cravat, Killian removed his waistcoat and prepared himself for bed, leaving nothing but a pair of trousers on. He settled into the bed, drawing the covers up to his chest. He could have lost her today, he seethed. He could have lost her, and she never would have known how loved she truly was. The urge to reach over to Emma draw her into his arms, to reassure himself that she and the baby were really all right, was gods damned overwhelming, but the last thing he wanted to do was enter her personal space when she could not consent to it, and possibly send her into another bout of early labor besides.

Tomorrow, perhaps, he thought sleepily, he could find a way to show Emma how much she meant to him without frightening her or causing her to think there were any strings attached…

* * *

 

When Killian awoke the next morning, he was surprised to find Emma facing him, her green eyes studying him from the other side of the bed, her golden hair fanned out on the pillows like a corona. His breath caught in his throat at the sight of it; she was an absolute vision, a goddess meant to be worshiped body and soul, and yet she had been made to believe that she had no worth. Killian’s soul couldn’t countenance that, and it cried out for vengeance.

He sat up in bed, curling his fists into the folds of the goose down coverlet as he tried to dissipate his rage with deep even breaths.

 “What’s wrong?” she asked softly.

“Hmm?” He blinked at her.

 “You looked angry,” she explained, pushing herself into a sitting position. “Is it about Neal?”

“Yes, Emma,” he answered, offering her his extra pillows to help support her back as she leaned against the headboard, “I am very angry with Neal.”

“Because you and I friends? Or because we’re married?”

“Because what he did to you was _wrong_ , Emma. The fact that we are married and have formed a friendship only makes me angrier, I admit, but that’s because I care about you, not because I own you or have any rights to you—law be damned.”

 “I know,” she said with a frown, “I got your last letter.”

“But...?”

“I hear your words; I can trust them intellectually, but the rest of me can’t. Neal said he cared, too. Loved me, even,” her voice cracked. “And it didn’t mean anything.” Tears filled her eyes, and Killian wanted nothing more than to pull her into his arms and show her the real depth of his feeling, to prove to her that his words held real meaning. But now was not the appropriate time for it. When he—if he—ever confessed his feelings to her, he wanted it to be under happy circumstances, untainted by the ugly stain of Neal’s memory.

“Now, that’s the problem with words,” Killian admitted after an awkward silence. “Not worth a farthing if our actions don’t back them up.”

Emma nodded with a sniff, and Killian slid out of the bed to retrieve the handkerchief from his clothes to retrieve the handkerchief he the clothes he’d worn yesterday. “Here,” he offered it to her. She accepted it with a wan smile, thanking him, and dabbed at her eyes.

“Killian?”

“Hmm?” he said, sitting back on the bed beside her.

Her words were halting, “I want—I think—”

He turned to peer at her, furrowing his brow with concern.

The kiss was quick. So quick that Killian did not fully realize what had even taken place until after it was already concluded. The warm press of her lips burned on his own, like a brand, and he stared at her with a mixture of shock and confusion. When he managed to speak, his voice sounded nothing like his own. “Emma, what...?”

A curtain of sleep-tangled blonde hair hid her expression from view, but Killian didn’t miss the rapid way she breathed, or the tremor of her hands.

He cleared his throat and tried again. “Emma,” he said gently, “Why did you do that? I told you I’m not... You don’t owe me anything.”

“I had some time to think while you were gone, caring for your brother,” she said after several silent moments. “And I think that if I just _make_ myself do things,” she rushed on, “starting with you, I can get used to being touched, and—”

“Emma, I think this is a bad idea,” he interrupted quietly. “I won’t be a party to it.”

“But you said it was my choice,” she argued, “that if I wanted to do something, all I needed to do was initiate—”

“Yes, Emma,” he fired back firmly, “ _wanted_. Not forced. Forcing yourself means that you aren’t ready.”

“Ready?” Her voice cracked like a whip. “Who are you to tell me anything about whether I’m ready for something or not? You feed me all of these lines about how you don’t want anything from me, and how it’s my choice to initiate, but then when I _do_ , you throw it all back at me and patronize me by telling me it _isn’t_ my choice, and you don’t want anything to do with me!”

“Emma,” he sighed, “that’s not how I meant it at all. I’m not trying to take your agency from you, and certainly I’m open to a physical component to our relationship, as I’ve said before, but I don’t think that this is the way to approach it.”

“Well, I do!” She pushed off the bed and started pacing the floor in an agitated manner.

Killian thought of the doctor’s warning about keeping Emma calm and relaxed. “Emma, darling, come sit down again. I’ll make you a cup of tea, and we’ll talk this over.”

“Stop calling me that!” she growled. “And I don’t want to talk! There’s nothing to talk about! You won’t help me with this—”

“Emma, I am always willing to help, but I don’t think this would be good for you or our marriage or me.”

“You?” she echoed in disbelief, pausing to stare at him. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” he said, standing up to join her in the middle of the room, “that Killian Jones will not be a party to something that might only end up hurting both of us. Hadn’t it occurred to you that _I_ might not want to be used in such a fashion?”

 “I—I guess I didn’t really think...” she trailed off, looking more lost than ever.

“Emma, we will figure all of this out,” he assured her. “We will. But this sort of thing takes time. We cannot rush it. If anything physical ever does develop between us, I’d like it to be organic, not forced. And above all, I’d like it to be mutual. Do you understand?”

“Yes. I’m sorry. I just... Mother wants me to see a cricket.”

“I beg your pardon, a what?”

She sighed. “I took your advice and asked her to arrange for me to talk with someone. She came up with an enchanted cricket. Or a man that was changed into a cricket,” she corrected herself, “but that’s not the point. The point is that she wants me to spill all of my problems to someone green and two inches long! I thought maybe...maybe I could just figure things out myself instead.”

“Does this cricket talk?”

“He must,” Emma shrugged, “because Mother always talks about him like she communicates with him somehow. And I think he’s been involved in some of their councils about Regina in the past.”

“Then give him a chance,” Killian suggested. “He may be able to help. Furthermore, perhaps your mother suggested him to you precisely because he is green and two inches long.”

“Excuse me?”

“I mean that perhaps she realized that you wouldn’t find a cricket threatening,” he explained. “Quite the opposite. Presumably, in her reasoning, you might feel safe enough sharing your feelings with this man-turned-cricket, rather than a normal man, in order to heal.”

“I never thought of it that way,” she said in a soft voice, her expression turning thoughtful.

A knock sounded on the door. “Come in,” Killian said. He looked back toward Emma. “I believe that’s the doctor. We can talk more about this after your appointment. Say, over breakfast?”

Emma nodded, offering no objections, and Killian took that as a good sign. He didn’t like to fight, particularly with Emma, but he simply could not countenance something that would only hurt them both, much less actively participate in it. Emma, this marriage to her...they meant too much to him for that. As to whether he would ever win her heart or not, he honestly could not guess. But Killian swore to himself that if he ever did, it would not be through any lies or trickery. It would only be because she wanted him.

* * *

It was nearly three whole days before Killian was able to visit his brother again. Although Dr. Whale had not liked the prospect of potentially spreading the disease further, Emma and Killian had combined ranks to forcefully persuade him into giving his permission for Killian to visit Liam late in the evenings, when palace activity was at its minimum and he would be less likely to run into people. Leaving Emma in the company of Belle and Ruby, Killian posted Robin as a sentry to guard them, and took and took off to see his brother, accompanied by one of Robin’s men. “Good evening,” he said quietly, closing the door behind him.

Liam sat on the bed, propped up by many pillows, poring over a thick volume from the library. He looked much more like himself, Killian observed as he approached. His color was much better, and he was much more alert. "Hello,” he returned, closing the book. “It’s about time my brother stopped by to see me again,” he teased. “How’s Emma doing?”

Killian sat down next to his brother’s bed with a sigh. “If only I knew how to answer that question,” he admitted. “As well as can be expected under the circumstances, I suppose. She chafes at the doctor’s restrictive guidelines, but she’s trying remarkably hard to be a good sport about it.”

“Moody?” Liam guessed.

“Terribly,” he agreed. “Though I’m certain that’s just as much from the tension of our uncertainty about Neal’s plans as it is her temporary confinement or the pregnancy itself.”

“Perfectly understandable,” Liam observed. “Considering what she’s been through, just knowing he’s out there, free to harm her or someone else is enough to make anyone ill with fear and worry. Knowing that he’s in Ravenwood, under Regina’s protection, possibly plotting against her parents...” He trailed off, a disturbed look on his face. “Something needs to be done about him, Killian. The sooner the better.”

“Believe me, I’d like nothing better,” he growled. “But Emma needs me. I won’t simply leave her behind on a quest for vengeance.”

 “No,” Liam agreed, “that’s so. I raised you better than that.” Neither of them needed to say that the reason Liam had had to raise Killian at all was because their father, Brennan Jones, had abandoned them when they had most needed him. Killian would be damned before he ever did the same thing to anyone else, especially Emma. It was a decidedly dishonorable thing to do. And the brothers Jones were men of honor _because of_ , not in spite of, the poor example their father had set for them.

“How’s the marriage going otherwise?” Liam asked after a brief silence. “Are you and Emma getting along all right? I know the engagement was rushed, and the situation isn’t ideal, but you must not let yourself get discouraged, little brother. You and Emma have your whole lives before you. You may yet come to care for each other.”

Killian shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Not this again,” he sighed. Ever since Killian had disclosed the news of his betrothal to Emma, Liam had been determined to put the brightest possible face on the arranged marriage. Perhaps Liam worried that Killian might come to regret his decision—that one day he might wake up and realize that he could have pursued other women, other opportunities, rather than settle for a loveless marriage of convenience. But as touching as his brother’s concern was, Killian was a grown man, fully capable of making his own decisions and accepting the consequences thereof, be they positive or negative.

“I think I liked it better when you were ill and couldn’t patronize me,” he muttered. Liam grinned, unapologetic. “I am as happy as the circumstances allow or warrant,” Killian finally answered.

“And what does that mean?” Liam pried. “Have you come to have second thoughts about this marriage already? I’m afraid it’s more than a bit late to be—”

 “No,” he told his brother firmly, “I am not having any second thoughts about my marriage to Emma.”

Liam shot him a skeptical look. “Killian, I consider myself an honorable man, so I won’t pry into your affairs as such; _however_ , as your older brother—”

Killian groaned to himself.

“—I must observe that you have what one might call a romantic nature, and I find it difficult to believe that you would be content with a relationship that lacks mutual affection, over the long term.”

“Not that it’s any of your business,” Killian began impatiently, “but I knew what I was getting into when I proposed. I am a grown man, Liam, fully capable of making my own decisions. I don’t have to justify them or any other part of my life to you. Furthermore,” he warmed to the subject, “as fond as I’ve always been of Emma, I have absolutely no expectations of her in terms of our marriage whatsoever. Whatever this marriage is or will be, that’s up to her, and Emma is aware of that.”

Liam’s expression was flabbergasted. Killian felt a small, smug surge of satisfaction at that.

“ _Fond_?” his elder brother finally said, with a raise of his eyebrows. “ _Always_?”

_Oh hell and damn_ , Killian thought with foreboding. He’d said too much.

 “You’re in love with her, aren’t you?” Liam accused. “You love your wife!”

“Liam...”

“So many things make sense now,” he went on, with a thoughtful expression on his face. “I don’t know how I never saw it before. How long has this been going on?”

“Liam!”

“That’s why you married her, isn’t it? It wasn’t the king’s idea at all, was it?”

“No,” Killian sighed. “It wasn’t...”

_Killian had not left the palace since they had brought Emma back to her parents. Although Liam had been allowed to return to his crew and his ship, Killian was being detained with no more explanation than that the queen and king had requested his presence as a guest for the time being. For what purpose, he simply could not imagine. Truth to be told, Killian would much rather have been aiding in the search for Neal. Even Liam and the crew of the Jewel had been put to work in that effort, while Killian sat in the library or the gardens all day, restless and desperate for each bit of news brought to him about Emma. But who was he to refuse the express wishes of his rulers? Having been burned by far less honorable rulers in the past, Killian and Liam couldn’t have been more grateful to secure positions in Queen Snow’s navy and leave their old, corrupt monarch behind; Snow and David truly were every bit as honorable and good as they had been reputed to be, and Emma was certain to follow in their footsteps. He simply wouldn’t dream of refusing the Charmings anything they requested of him; he trusted in their goodness and honor and knew that they would never lead him astray._

_So as frustrating as it was that he could not participate in the big hunt for Neal, Killian accepted it with an outward patience, at least, while he fruitlessly tried to distract his mind._

_“Lieutenant.” Killian looked up, squinting in the bright sunlight. A dark haired beauty with a red cloak stood next to the stone bench with a basket in one hand, her expression unreadable. “Sorry to interrupt your reading,” she said with a nod toward the book he held in one hand. “May I join you?”_

_“Certainly,” he said, scooting over to one end of the bench. Carefully, he closed the latest book Belle had recommended to him and laid it on the bench. He studied the brunette next to him for a minute. Something about her felt familiar, but he couldn’t place it. “Have...we met before?”_

_“You could say that,” she said with a tiny smile, “but I’m afraid we’ve never been formally introduced as such. “I’m Emma’s aunt, Ruby Lucas. Well, legally, I’m more her godmother, but Snow and I are as good as sisters by everything but blood, so....” She trailed off, eyeing him speculatively. “The truth is, Lieutenant, I take my duties as godmother quite seriously. So when someone hurts Emma, I make it a policy to make their life an everlasting hell.” Her face warped with anger, and a chill zipped down Killian’s spine as something feral and hungry glinted in her eyes._

_“Unfortunately, the snake has escaped justice for the moment. And as much as I’d like to hunt him down and personally rip out his throat, my duty right now is here with Emma, doing everything I can to help secure her future happiness. That’s where you come in.”_

_Me?_ _Killian thought. What the bloody hell did he have to do with anything regarding Emma’s future, or her happiness? He was about to ask what she meant, how he could help, when Ruby spoke again._

_“Offer for her.”_

_“I...beg your pardon?” he blinked. She couldn’t possibly have said what he just thought she did. He must be dreaming. Dear gods, what a relief. It was all but an awful, awful nightmare—_

_“Offer for Emma in marriage,” Ruby continued, either oblivious or simply uncaring as to his shock._ “ _My instincts don’t lie, Lieutenant, and right now they are screaming at me that you’re just as in love with her as you’ve always been--which is how I know that you are the only man whom I can possibly entrust her future with, now. Offer for her, Lieutenant. She trusted you, once. I think she could again.”_

_“I—I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he struggled, in a vain attempt to deflect, too shocked that his secret was known to this total stranger. “She’s the princess! I would never dare to presume—”_

_“Of course you don’t presume,” she said impatiently, “That’s why you’ve been pining over her for seven years instead of doing something about it.”_

_Killian opened and closed his mouth a few times, trying to find of something to say in refutation, but everything he could think of was a lie. It was difficult to think beyond the squeezing ache in his forehead anyway. How had Emma’s godmother figured it out? Was it really that obvious to everyone? Did that mean that Emma knew? The terrible thought seized him and refused to let go. What a fool he must look, pining after the princess..._

_“I haven’t...I didn’t...” The throbbing in his head increased, and he rubbed at at the tense muscles in his neck and shoulders, trying to ease the burn of pain there._

_“But now you can,” she insisted. “Listen to me. I will never forgive myself for what happened to Emma. She managed to sneak out with him and maintain a relationship with him right under my nose, and I never even suspected because—” She stopped abruptly, pressing her lips shut. “It was my job to look after her,” she continued, her voice shaking with grief, “My job to know who she was spending time with and what kind of people they were. And I failed.” The intense self-loathing in her eyes worried Killian. “But I will not fail her this time,” Ruby went on feverishly. “Please, ~~i~~ f anyone can get through to her, to help her heal, it’s you. If I didn’t believe that, I never would have come for you on the ship.”_

_“The ship...?” Killian trailed off, staring at her. Several things clicked into place all at once, and he buried his face in his hands with a groan, trying to process all of it. “You’re the wolf,” he verbalized, after he had collected himself._

_“I am,” she confirmed with a grim expression._

_“And Emma is part of your pack,” he realized. The feral, almost savage glimpses of her personality and the intensity of her emotions regarding Emma suddenly made a lot more sense to him. Ruby Lucas was one of the dual-natured._

_“Pack must be protected,” she agreed._

_“And let me guess,” he went on in a resigned, mildly embarrassed tone, “you could smell my, ah, attraction to her. That’s how you knew.”_

_“I did,” she nodded. “Hard to miss, actually, when you have a nose like mine.”_

_“Wonderful,” he muttered._

_“But I could also smell that your intentions were honest and honorable,” she added. “You were never a threat to her. You still aren’t. Please, Lieutenant. Think about what I’ve said. You care for her. I know you would treat her the way she deserves to be treated; cherish her the way she deserves to be cherished.” She paused, her expression becoming weary and defeated. “Protect her the way that I couldn’t,” she finished. “You are her best chance for future happiness…”_

“And you never thought to tell any of this to your own brother?” Liam said in a mildly offended tone when Killian finished his story.

“I would have had to tell you about my feelings for Emma to do that,” he admitted, feeling warmth flood his cheeks.

“Why didn’t you?” his brother asked in a sad tone. “Killian, don’t you trust me?”

“Of course I do,” he reassured his brother. “It’s just that...” He sighed, struggling to put it all into words now that he was finally coming clean to Liam. “She was only fourteen when we met, Liam. _Fourteen_. I was twenty-one, and having a hell of a time coming to terms with how I felt, myself. I was afraid you might find my feelings for her...dishonorable.”

“Forget about the age difference,” Liam snorted, “You mean to tell me that you’ve carried a torch for this woman for _seven years_ and you not only never told _me_ , you also apparently never told her how you felt or—or worked the Jones charm on her, once she was older?”

“Come on, Liam,” he muttered. “I wasn’t going to jeopardize our careers here for something that could never have gone anywhere serious to begin with.”

 “What makes you say that?”

“She’s the Crown Princess. I wasn’t even minor nobility. What could I have offered her for a future together?”

“Respect,” his brother pointed out. “Love. Honor. Devotion. All of the things that bastard, for all of his noble blood, lacked. Wealth and blood and title mean nothing without a well-formed, honest character, Killian. It wasn’t _you_ that had nothing to offer her, little brother. It was the man who mistreated her.”

Killian shifted in his chair again, absorbing his brother’s words. Had he been wrong to conceal his feelings all this time? He felt confused, uncertain of himself.

“Furthermore,” Liam went on, “do you really think her parents would have refused your suit had you offered it? Their daughter means the world to them. Do you really believe that they think so little of her and her happiness that they would have refused your suit unless she hadn’t been raped?”

“No!” he snapped. Liam’s brows shot up at the sharpness of his tone. His expression was disapproving. “Sorry,” he sighed. “I never really thought about it,” he confessed in a milder voice.

“Well, I suggest you start thinking about it,” Liam ordered in his familiar, bossy older brother voice, “and about when and how, _for gods’ sakes_ , you’re going to seduce your wife and win her heart!”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There! Liam is perfectly fine, ladies and gentleman, and I NEVER HAD ANY INTENTION OF KILLING HIM OFF! I'm far too fond of Liam for that. Besides, as some of you remembered to point out when Liam became sick, he and Killian still needed to have an important conversation about the circumstances of Killian's marriage. This last leg of the chapter was that conversation. Hopefully it didn't disappoint, after all this time wondering about it.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: As I’m sure many of you noticed, this is a very, very long chapter (even by my standards). But I think you’ll understand as you read while it had to be this particular length, so find some place comfortable to settle for the ride. 
> 
> Thanks go out once again, to my beta reader, Raams! She hasn’t complained of any eyestrain from my long chapters yet, even after reading this chapter over twice, so massive thanks to her for reading everything with such a careful eye and offering valuable feedback!
> 
> Enjoy this massive monster of a chapter!

Emma rolled over to her right side, kicking off the covers in frustration. She couldn’t seem to get comfortable in the bed that she shared with Killian. Small wonder, given that she spent most of her days sitting or lying down now. Confined to bed yet again was the last place she wanted to be, but what else was she to do in the middle of the night except toss and turn next to her slumbering husband? Visiting the library with Belle was out; it involved far more movement than the physician would ever approve, and Emma knew she could never talk her old tutor into bending the rules, even if Emma could bring herself to upset Killian by sneaking off.

Glaring at her husband’s still, evenly breathing form, Emma knew that none of it was truly his fault. He was simply the unfortunate enforcer of Victor Whale’s medical tyranny. She shouldn’t resent him for trying to keep her and her baby safe. It wasn’t Killian’s fault she was pregnant, or that she’d gone into preterm labor. Neither was it his fault that her own apartments within the palace had become a beautiful but stifling prison to her.

Inhaling through her nose in an effort to calm her swelling temper, Emma sat up and pushed herself out of the bed. Foregoing her robe, she shuffled over to the window, where the rain beat against the windowpane in a rhythm that she found oddly soothing; her temper abated somewhat, she recalled her therapy session earlier that day…

_“And how did it make you feel, when he didn’t return your kiss?”_

_Emma stared at the little cricket in front of her, still trying to adjust to the idea that the person to whom she was supposed to share all of her innermost thoughts and feelings—things she could barely admit to herself—was a chirping insect. Yet somehow, the strange relationship seemed to work, for only minutes into the session, she’d found herself ranting not about Neal and the hell that he had put her through, but about Killian._

_“Angry,” she admitted, feeling the sting of it even now, though it had happened three days ago._

_“And why do you think you felt that?”_

_“Because he should have wanted to kiss me!” she burst out, surprising herself. “We’re_ married _, and he_ says _he wants a physical aspect to our relationship, but then he refuses me when I try to add one!”_

_“I see,” Jiminy replied with quiet patience. “How well did you know your husband before you married him, Emma?”_

_“I…not that well,” she admitted. “We saw each other sometimes, outside of official business, but our contact was limited by necessity. There wasn’t much time for deep and meaningful conversations.”_

_“So would you say that you have the type of relationship now where he might be comfortable enough to kiss you back?”_

_Her brow crinkled in thought. “I don’t know,” she shook her head. “I guess not.” Her shoulders drooped. “I pushed too hard, is that what you’re saying?”_

_“I can’t answer that for you,” he replied. “However, I would like to examine why it is that you kissed him in the first place. What were you feeling?”_

_“I don’t know,” she hedged._

_“I think you do. Emma, I cannot help you if you are not honest with me.”_

_Embarrassed, she quickly explained about her ill-conceived plan to overcome her problems by repeated exposure to males, namely her husband. “But he didn’t want any part of that,” she whispered, feeling ashamed. “We had a fight, and he said he didn’t want to be used like that.”_

_“A valid sentiment,” the cricket approved. “But none of that answers my question. What were you_ feeling _before you kissed him?”_

_“I…” Emma faltered, feeling her heart increase its pace. “I don’t know.”_

_“Think back to that moment,” he advised. “Remember everything that you were feeling and focus on it.”_

_Screwing her eyes shut, Emma scoured her memories. What did it matter what she was feeling when she did it? The point was that she had, and Killian hadn’t responded at all the way that she had anticipated. “Scared,” she finally said, after reflecting on it for a few moments. “I felt scared, and I hated Neal. I hated that he was controlling my life so much and he wasn’t even there. I was seething with anger because I didn’t want to think about him anymore, to have him consume my every waking thought and feeling. I wanted to make it go away, to smother it, to_ smother him _until he and every last memory just died!”_

_“So what I’m hearing is that you weren’t angry with Killian at all, you were angry with Neal. And to make that anger go away, you tried to push the boundaries of what you were truly comfortable with. Then when it didn’t garner the result you expected, you took all of that anger and focused it on Killian because you couldn’t confront Neal, the real object of your ire. Is that what happened?”_

_A long, heavy silence followed Jiminy’s analysis. Emma felt a chill crawl down her spine. She felt the truth of his conjecture in her bones, and it made her feel ashamed. Killian didn’t deserve to serve as Neal’s whipping boy. “Yes,” she said hoarsely, when she could speak again. “That’s what happened.”_

_“Emma, I think what you’re dealing with right now is called displacement,” Jiminy continued. “When our emotions are too overwhelming or frightening to express to the one who aroused them in us, we sometimes transfer them to someone we perceive as safer, and therefore less likely to hurt or punish us in the way we fear. When you got angry with Killian, you weren’t really mad at him, you were mad at Neal; and you confronted that anger toward Neal in the only way your psyche felt safe in doing—by directing it toward Killian.”_

_Emma absorbed his words, feeling perturbed. Whatever she felt about the circumstances that had led to her marriage, she’d meant what she said to Killian about trying to make their marriage work. And work it would not, if she continued this pattern of taking things out on Killian that weren’t his doing. For it was a pattern, she realized, skimming her memories of the past few months. Ever since they’d become engaged, Killian had borne the brunt of her rage toward Neal in ways large and small. And he had endured all of it with a silent, patient understanding that left Emma confused. He didn’t have to put up with any of that. Most other men_ wouldn’t _have put up with it, she felt certain; they’d have left to find someone normal and undamaged, with no baggage. And while Emma couldn’t possibly fathom Killian’s reasons for staying, she knew with certainty that she didn’t want to drive this remarkably patient man away. She couldn’t risk it, couldn’t risk--_

_An anxious knot formed in her belly, and she felt her throat close up. Her fingers clawed at the armrests of the chair she sat in, scrabbling in rhythm with her lungs as she struggled to breathe. Her thoughts spun out of control, nauseating her with their frantic pace, and she closed her eyes, instinctively trying to ward them off._

_“Emma,” she heard Jiminy say, his voice faraway and warped, “visualize your emotions the way we talked about. Don’t try to run away from them.”_

_She rode out the panic attack with his gentle guidance. Gradually, her breaths became more regular, and her thoughts more ordered as she visualized her overwhelming feelings as ocean waves that lost power and speed, breaking one by one against the shoreline._

_“That’s it,” Jiminy encouraged, when Emma dared to open her eyes and found the world still again. “Very good. See? Your feelings can’t drown you if you remember to swim through them.”_

A loud crash of thunder startled her out of the memory, and Emma shivered in the draft of chilly air near the window. She glanced back toward the bed, wondering if it might not be better to toss and turn in warmth rather than stand and shiver in the cold, and saw her husband sitting up in bed, rubbing a hand through his hair. “Killian?”

“Emma?” he said with concern. “What are you doing over there? Come back to bed, you’ll catch your death of cold.”

She returned to the bed reluctantly, and Killian leaned over her, making her pulse quicken as he gently pulled the covers up to her shoulders. He settled back against the bed again, facing her. “Did the storm wake you up?” he asked quietly. “Or was it a nightmare?”

“Neither,” she said. “I never fell asleep to begin with.”

“Why didn’t you wake me?” he wondered. “I could have gotten you some warm milk from the kitchens.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” she sighed. “I figured at least one of us should get some sleep, I guess.” Killian didn’t seem satisfied with this answer, but refrained from comment. Emma, remembering her conversation with Jiminy, made a decision. “Killian,” she said quietly, “thank you.”

“For what?”

“Being here. Staying.”

“Of course,” he said in a puzzled tone, “but you don’t have to thank me for that. Why wouldn’t I stay? Where else would I go, now that we’re married?”

“I meant for staying even before we married. You stepped up and offered for me, and you didn’t have to do that. I don’t pretend to know your motivations, and I know I’ve been suspicious about them and lashed out you for things that weren’t your fault, but…I’m trying to work on that with Jiminy now. Thank you.”

“You don’t need to thank me,” he said again after a long silence. “Perhaps we didn’t know each other all that well before, but we were friendly with each other, weren’t we? I wouldn’t leave a friend behind in a time of need.”

“I know.” She was beginning to see that, to catch glimpses again of the man she’d known to be so good and honorable when she’d been in love with him. Perhaps her younger self hadn’t been deluded—had seen more clearly the real Killian Jones after all. “But it’s hard to remember, sometimes. Ever since...” She trailed off, unwilling to tread down that particular path of memory in the middle of the night.

“I’m glad things seem to be off to a good start with Jiminy,” came the response after another period of silence.

A corner of her mouth ticked upward. “Me too.”

Nothing more was said, each of them dwelling in their own thoughts, and eventually Emma heard Killian’s breaths turn even and rhythmic again, signaling that he had fallen asleep once more. Drowsing in the warm certainty of his presence on the other side of the bed, Emma felt content, almost free for the first time in several months. She drifted toward sleep by degrees, too tired to question why this certainty should affect such feelings, and instead dreamed…

_Emma lazed in the bathtub, feeling the warmth of the afternoon sun as it filtered through the windowpanes onto her upturned face. Her afternoon ride had left her feeling exhilarated but tired, and she’d cancelled two appointments just to soak for a while before she had to prepare for the state dinner that evening. If she had to be civil and entertain a bunch of boring old ambassadors who seemed to think a skirt disabled one’s brain, Emma was going to prepare for such torture on her own terms._

_“Hello, beautiful.”_

_She didn’t have to open her eyes. The smooth, melodious baritone was one that she would know anywhere. But the feel of his fingers sliding through her hair, removing her hairpins one by one, had Emma opening her eyes anyway. He knelt next to the tub, brilliant blue eyes worshipping her without a word, the curve of a smile on his lips. Her hair tumbled down to her bare shoulders, released from its bonds and shaken free with one deft movement of his hand. A delicious shiver of electricity ran down her spine and settled in her groin._

_He studied every inch of her, the heat of his gaze caressing and kissing and giving pleasure in a way that made her breathless. Her core throbbed, and Emma’s heart thumped to think of what he could do with his hands…He, who did so much with only his eyes…_

Emma awoke, feeling confused, her body burning with unmet need. She waited for it to subside, uncomfortable, and tried to piece together her dream. All but the smallest fragments eluded her, swept away with morning’s light, but she sensed that the dream was related to the heightened arousal of her body. Emma didn’t know whether to be grateful or resentful that she couldn’t remember any of it. While it was comforting to have yet more evidence that Neal hadn’t destroyed the whole of her sexual desire, the fact that he _hadn’t_ put a possibility in her future that Emma wasn’t yet ready to face.

“Good morning,” Killian’s sleep-thickened voice murmured, distracting her.

Glancing over at her husband, Emma saw that he was lazing on his side, head propped up on one arm, studying her. She blushed under his gaze, and couldn’t understand why. Something about the scenario felt uncomfortably familiar, as if it had happened before, and Emma realized with chagrin that it probably had—in her adolescent fantasies.

“Good morning,” she replied, hoping he couldn’t hear the note of embarrassment in her voice.

“You slept?”

She nodded.

“Good. You’re feeling all right? You look flushed, love.”

“Just, um, a little warm,” she confessed. It wasn’t exactly a lie, she told herself.

“Hmm,” he said, throwing back the bed covers and swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. Emma tried not to notice the smooth, broad expanse of his shoulders as his back was turned, or the way his sleeping trousers dipped low, offering her a glimpse of his dimpled backside while he reached for his slippers. “I suppose we could open the window for some fresh air while we eat,” he offered. “Are you hungry?”

He peered over his shoulder at her, and Emma startled, feeling as guilty as a child caught sneaking sweets between meals.

“Um…”

“What am I saying?” he grinned. “Of course you’re starving, now that the morning sickness is gone.”

 _For more than you know_ , she thought with a mixture of fear and dismay. Wasn’t this aroused, hungry feeling ever going to go away? It had never lasted very long in the past, when she’d chosen to ignore it. What was wrong with her? She had one good therapy session with Jiminy and suddenly she was having arousing dreams and looking at her husband with lust? There seemed a gulf of difference between trying to learn treat Killian more fairly and desiring him as a man; and the fact that they were intermingling confused and terrified Emma.

 _You’ve wanted him before_ , a small voice reminded her as she eased herself out of the bed and found a dressing gown. _And you’ve noticed him as a man in this marriage before now. Maybe it’s not so far a distance as you think._

 _No_. Emma slammed the door shut on that train of thought. She was not going to let some hormonal surge convince her that she wanted Killian Jones. Her body simply craved release. This wasn’t anything she couldn’t take care of through other means, if she chose to indulge it. Her body wouldn’t know the difference.

 _Focus on something else_ , she told herself as Killian summoned a servant and asked him to bring up a substantial breakfast from the kitchens. Seating herself at her dressing table, Emma began to brush her hair. “So did you and Liam have a good talk last night?” she inquired, watching him through the mirror’s reflection. “How is he?”

She saw Killian pause in the act of cinching his own dressing gown shut, his expression startled. And was that apprehension she saw on his face? “How did you know I talked with my brother?”

“Well, most people talk when they visit each other,” she pointed out with mild amusement.

“Yes, of course,” he mumbled, scratching nervously behind one ear, “I didn’t mean…”

“So what did you two talk about? Unless this was some super secret Jones Brothers meeting you can’t breathe a word about?” she teased.

“Of course not.” His expression cleared. “He asked how you were getting along, and I told him you were recovering, but chafing at the bed rest.” She raised an eyebrow at that, and he chuckled. “Well, it’s true, love.” Emma couldn’t rightly argue with him, so she concentrated on brushing out a particularly nasty tangle in her hair, courtesy of spending half the night tossing and turning.

“Let me.” The brush was lifted from her hands as Killian explained that he’d brushed Melly’s hair more times than he could count while playing dress-up. His fingers slid across her scalp with one hand, while the bristles of the brush raked through her hair with the other. Emma’s body became rigid with shock. The elusive pieces of her dream surfaced, pulled from unconscious memory by the intimate familiarity of his fingers, and her breathing became ragged. Her fingers curled around the arms of her dressing table chair, knuckles turning white. Part of her wanted to push him away, do anything to make the coiling, wonderfully provocative tension between her thighs stop.

Another, quieter part of herself wanted him to continue.

“Emma?” he said with a frown, taking notice of her body language. He looked from her face to the brush in his hands and seemed to realize that he might have overstepped his bounds somehow. “I’m sorry,” he said, placing the brush back on her dressing table. “My mind was… That is, I should have asked. I didn’t think.” His expression was full of guilt and worry and self-loathing, and Emma hated that she’d put any of that there when he’d been smiling just moments before.

“Not you,” she croaked, when both the anxiety and the heat between her thighs had subsided.

“Neal?” he asked quietly. “Did he used to…?” He trailed off, his expression shuttered and remote.

“No.”

His face flickered an expression of uncertainty and doubt as Emma watched him in the mirror again, then smoothed out, his jaw hardening.

She’d hurt him, wounded his pride. Made him think that it was his touch she recoiled from, not her own lovesick past.

“Killian, I—” What could she say to him? How could she explain without letting on secrets she’d kept dead and buried for over two years? Without acknowledging that her body wanted him in ways her mind was in no way prepared to explore. If she said something, Emma knew there would be expectations placed on her, not from Killian, but from herself. And that she could not endure.

“I didn’t mean to upset you,” she apologized after a long, uncomfortable silence.

“Neither did I.”

Silence descended between the two of them again, and Emma began wishing she hadn’t gone to talk with Jiminy at all, if sex dreams and hurting Killian just as much as she ever did was going to be the result of it.

A knock sounded on their bedchamber door. Killian went to answer it, speaking quietly with the maid for a moment before she left. “Breakfast awaits, love,” he said, holding open the door to the drawing room for her.

She felt momentarily cheered at his use of the familiar term, thinking perhaps they could return to their easier rapport again, but breakfast turned out to be a silent affair as well. It wasn’t until they had both dressed for the day and Killian helped settle her at a large table to pore over a large pile of legal documents that they spoke again. Their conversation was strictly business, unbroken by any of the usual teasing or asides that Killian made while she explained to him various parts of the legal charter and what that meant for practical application of the law in each case. Emma’s inability to control her reaction to the remembered dream had deflated Killian, robbing him of his usual confidence and humor, and she worried that she had driven him away in spirit, if not in body.

Things weren’t normal between them again for a week.

* * *

Emma’s sex dream had been far from the last of its kind. They seemed to be increasing in frequency, right along with her raging pregnancy hormones, and over the course of three weeks, she’d discovered, to her horror, that anything from the scent of Killian’s abandoned pillow after he woke up in the morning to the curve of his bicep through the shirts he wore underneath his waistcoats could trigger them. It was fast becoming torture to spend great lengths of time with her husband, and given that they spent most of their day together in one capacity or another, Emma sometimes felt that she burned with need more often than not. It drove her half-crazy and made her look forward to her daily therapy sessions with Jiminy, where she could focus her building irritability from unmet sexual need on the one who’d violated her in the first place. And yet, as the days went on and their sessions increased, Emma found to her chagrin that her relationship with Killian was far more tangled up in her trauma and her attempts to heal than she’d ever imagined.

_“Trauma can manifest itself in unexpected ways, Emma,” Jiminy reassured her one afternoon. “A change in grooming habits after being raped is understandable. The decision not to coif your hair could mean many things. Perhaps for some people it serves as a defense mechanism. If they look less attractive from poor grooming habits, they feel they won’t attract unwanted attention. In other cases, it might be simple neglect, because all their energy and attention is focused on survival in the aftermath of what happened to them. In the context of that day at the Westensees, you said you felt disgusted with yourself when you threw the hair clips down. Can you tell me more about that?”_

_Closing her eyes, Emma remembered the wave of rage that had overtaken her when she’d become conscious of her own primping. She_ would not _make herself up for Killian Jones as she had Neal. Disgust, underlaid by shame drove her to rip out the barrettes, taking a good deal of hair with them, and she’d screamed. Damn Neal. Damn him to hell that she should feel fear and shame at looking nice…_

_“I felt…I didn’t want him to see me like that,” Emma said, struggling to ease the tension from her body, to smooth her breathing again after dredging up the memory and all that it implied._

_“Whom? Killian?”_

_She nodded once. “I used to style my hair especially for Neal, when we’d meet, and I couldn’t…bring myself to do that, no matter how kind Killian had been.”_

_“I see. So what I’m hearing is that you feel vulnerable when you put extra care and attention into styling your hair.”_

_“Yes.”_

_“Well, Emma, given your upcoming reception ball, I think it’s perfectly understandable that you’re backsliding in your grooming habits. Social expectation can be a powerful thing, and the pressure from your parents, your guests, and even yourself can lead to feeling trapped, even frightened. And so often, when we feel our back is against the wall, we act out.”_

_“It’s not just that,” Emma began hesitantly._

_“Yes?”_

_“There was—an incident—with Killian.”_

_“Oh?”_

_“It was…a few weeks ago.” Emma described Killian’s brushing of her hair as sparsely as she could, leaving out both the sexual reaction it had caused and the dream that had triggered it. She couldn’t bring herself to divulge those details to anyone quite yet, not even Jiminy. It meant being honest with herself in a way that was absolutely terrifying._

_“And how did you feel when all of this was happening?”_

_“I felt—I felt things I don’t want to feel. He was too close. I was scared.”_

_“Because you felt exposed, having him brush your hair?”_

_“No,” she whispered. “Yes. I_ liked _it. I liked it so much I wanted to hurt him, push him away. All because of Neal. And Neal never would’ve done something so—so considerate.”_

_The realization made her ill, and yet she felt instinctively that it was the truth. Neal had never cared about her. Neal had never cared about anyone but Neal. Why she hadn’t she been able to see that? Had she been trying so hard to move on, to get over her old feelings for Killian, the unrequited crush she knew she could never obtain in truth, that she’d blinded herself to Neal’s true personality? Had she brought all of this on herself?_

_“Emma, from what I’m hearing from you, you let Killian close, is that correct? You allowed him into your personal space, and what’s more, you allowed him to do it in an area of particular vulnerability for you.”_

_“Yes,” she agreed. “I mean, I didn’t expect...And I don’t think he thought first…”_

_“So what happened?”_

_“He noticed how tense I was, and he stopped. He thought he’d done something wrong. Forced himself on me in a way I didn’t want. But I—part of me did want it. I was just scared and confused.”_

_“And you didn’t correct his misunderstanding?”_

_“No, I couldn’t bring myself to talk about it. I was scared of what it might mean for me.”_

_“And what do you think it would mean?”_

_“Going farther. Being more physical with each other.”_

_“You’re not ready for that,” he interpreted._

_Emma was silent for a long while, trying to sort through the tangle of conflicting emotions. The thought of being physically intimate disgusted her, and yet there was no denying the pleasure she’d felt when Killian had brushed her hair. Her body wanted sex still, even if the rest of her didn’t. It was confusing and frustrating, because she didn’t know which of the two sides to listen to. How did you reconcile them, if they even could be reconciled again? And did she even want to?_

_“I don’t know,” she said tiredly. “I don’t know what I want from Killian anymore.”_

But that wasn’t altogether true. As they worked together and laughed together and sometimes enjoyed the silence of each other’s company, Emma was beginning to be aware of Killian Jones as a man, quite apart from any sexual element of their relationship. Watching him learn to work with her parents, to quietly and firmly take the reins of duties she was unable to complete as the Crown Princess during her pregnancy, Emma began to realize that Killian Jones was a great many things that Neal had never been. He cared for her people on the same personal level that her parents did, and betook himself to visit the sick and the poor of her people twice a week to see to their needs. He visited the ordinary citizen and aided them in their work. If a roof needed thatching so a mother and her babe didn’t have to shiver and endure the freezing rain, Killian thatched it himself or found someone who could. If a household was short on food, Killian sent extra from the stores at the palace. If a farmer’s boots were falling off his feet and he couldn’t afford to have the cobbler make him a new pair because his crops hadn’t done well last season, Killian gave him the boots off his own feet or commissioned ones of the proper size from the cobbler.

The people loved him with a fierce devotion, her mother had reported proudly. He was one of theirs-- _their_ Prince in a way that no other had ever been. He didn’t hold himself aloft now that he’d married so far above his station; rather he used his station to bring awareness to their real, everyday needs and find long-term solutions with Queen Snow.

It meant more to Emma than she could ever express, although goodness knew she’d tried.

_“It’s nothing,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck in an embarrassed fashion when Emma asked him one evening if he’d really given up the boots off his own feet. It was the second time he’d replaced someone’s shoes in a fortnight, and it seemed to as if it were becoming a real habit with him._

_“He needed proper shoes to haul grain. I can afford new ones. He can’t afford_ anything _if he can’t get his crops to the markets for sale.”_

_“No,” Emma said firmly, feeling very determined that what Killian was doing for her people should not be downplayed, “it’s not nothing. Not to that farmer. And not to me.” The tips of his ears flushed red, and he didn’t look up from the book on diplomacy that he’d borrowed from Belle, but Emma could tell he was pleased at her approval. Had he imagined she would find fault with his generosity?_

_“Not just anyone would do something like that,” she continued. “Neal wouldn’t.” Selfish, spoiled Neal who had rarely worn the same shoes twice; who couldn’t be bothered to donate his perfectly good, barely used, discards to those who needed them. It was a far contrast from the charity her own mother practiced and had instilled in Emma from a young age. Why had she ever overlooked such a fault in her once-intended husband?_

_Killian looked up at her words, his expression tinged with surprise and confusion. Emma couldn’t blame him. She so rarely spoke of Neal at all, much less said his name if she could avoid it. Yet here she was, speaking freely of him, revealing something of his poor character. But it was too important to Emma that she show Killian she knew he was different; that she was beginning to see him not as any man, or one who might hurt her, but as a particular man, a_ good _man, named Killian Jones._

_“Thank you,” she said with sincerity._

_“Of course,” he said, looking more confused than ever. “But I didn’t do it for anyone to thank me.”_

_“I know,” she acknowledged with a soft smile. “And that’s why you needed to be thanked.”_

Killian Jones wasn’t just a convenient partner for running the kingdom anymore. Nor was he some concession to social sensibilities in the wake of an unexpected pregnancy in order to save face. He was a good friend _and_ a good husband. One she suspected she probably didn’t deserve. He had the qualities of someone she could have a life with, be content growing old with.

And, as she discovered one evening while they were curled near each other on a settee before the fire, he had the instincts of a good father, as well.

“Oh!” she gasped in surprise, wakening fully from her comfortable drowse to a strange flutter from within her swelling belly.

“What’s wrong?” Killian said, immediately shifting his attention away from the extra paperwork he’d insisted upon finishing for Emma, so that she could rest without worry. “Is it a contraction?”

Although Emma had been doubly lucky not to contract Liam’s fever or go into preterm labor again, as reports of Neal’s activity in the Ravenwood area had died away, Killian had remained on edge, alert for the least sign of either. Even when Emma had pointed out that it was a little irrational to worry about Yellow Fever so many weeks later, and that if she’d been going to contract it, it surely would have been long before now, Killian remained stubbornly attentive and worried on her behalf. Emma found it endearing, if a little aggravating. Off of bed rest she might be, but Killian seemed as determined as ever to spare her the least little particle of stress or worry by taking on most of her work in addition to the load he was already managing. Now it was Emma who insisted on trips to the library, or (in good weather) walks through the palace grounds, rather than the other way around.

“No,” she said slowly. The movement was nothing like the sharp pains that had accompanied her preterm labor. It wasn’t painful at all, but simply strange. Like an internal tickle. “I think the baby kicked.”

“What?” His gaze shifted to her swollen belly, papers utterly forgotten as he stared at it in amazement.

“The baby kicked,” she repeated. “At least I think it did.” As if to rid her of any doubt, the baby moved again, and Emma found herself laughing softly.

“Does it hurt?” he wanted to know, glancing from her to her belly again.

“No,” she said, trying to think of how to describe it to him, “It feels like butterflies flitting around inside my stomach.”

He seemed to contemplate this for several moments, and his expression became almost regretful. Emma frowned, noticing this. Was he now wishing it was a woman of his own choosing, with a baby of his own lineage, who was experiencing little kicks of life?

“Here,” she said, seized by the notion that he should share in the experience, too. She grabbed his hand, startling him, and placed it on her belly. It was the most personal contact they had ever had, but Emma felt strangely comfortable with it. “Maybe you can feel it, too.”

They waited for several breathless moments to no avail.

“Maybe it’s too early,” she suggested, seeing him the disappointment written on his face. “I’m sure you’ll be able to feel it pretty soon.”

“Perhaps,” he agreed, withdrawing his hand. Pushing aside the paperwork he’d been poring over, Killian reached for a blank sheet of parchment and one of the charcoal sticks Emma had been happily doodling with earlier. He began to sketch with confident, bold lines upon the page.

“What are you doing?”

His cheeks flushed with embarrassment, and he didn’t catch her gaze. “Sketching plans for a cradle,” he admitted after a moment. “This isn’t meant to pressure, you at all, Emma, it’s just— Well, the baby will have need of it in either case,” he finished. “To stay snug and warm, whatever family it grows with.”

“That’s very kind of you, Killian,” she said after a moment of reflection.

He scratched behind one ear, leaving smudges of charcoal dust on his skin. His expression was, once again, embarrassed. “I just want to give it a good start to life, wherever it goes.”

“Me too, Killian,” she admitted, feeling an internal glow from the incredible phenomenon that had just taken place. It made her more positively disposed to the baby living inside of her, if only temporarily. “Me too.”

* * *

So it was that, two weeks later, Emma found herself at a crossroads of sorts as she began her toilette for the private reception ball for her wedding of three months ago. She’d commissioned a new dress for the occasion, sewn of red satin brocade with short, single puff sleeves and a sweetheart neckline. The waist was high from necessity, gathered just below her swelling breasts, and Emma felt rather self-conscious about it. There could no longer be any doubt to the circulating rumors that she and Killian had married in haste due to her unplanned pregnancy. That Killian was assumed to be the natural father by everyone but only those in closest confidence to the royal family was something Emma still felt guilt over. Everyone assumed she and Killian had been seeing each other on the sly, meeting for secret, forbidden dalliances that had ultimately caught up with them and necessitated in a quick marriage.

When Emma had broached the rumors with Killian, he’d merely shrugged a shoulder. “Everyone who matters to us knows the truth,” he’d pointed out. “Let strangers think what they will.”

But what explanation, Emma often wondered, would they offer her people if she decided to give away her baby? To lie and say it had been stillborn wasn’t something Emma suspected her conscience could rest easy with. But neither could she be honest if she adopted the child out and let another raise it. The child would have a genuine claim to the throne, and would legally be able to challenge any heir she or Killian, or even her parents, named in its absence. Regina, with no legal blood claim to the throne, had caused enough trouble trying to conquer The Enchanted Forest and overthrow Snow. A legitimate contender for the throne could cause so many more problems that Emma fretted herself almost sick over it some nights. Furthermore, she realized, what was to stop Regina from finding the child and killing it for the legitimate claim it had that she lacked? Or worse still, using it to usurp the throne through legal means?

Emma simply couldn’t let it happen. She was the heir, the Crown Princess. She had a responsibility to her kingdom, to her people. She couldn’t leave them open and vulnerable to civil war.

Troubled with these weighty matters, Emma didn’t even notice at first that her new personal maid, Celeste, had begun to gather her hair and pin it into a knot. Freezing when she caught sight of herself in the mirror, with her hair half pinned up, the other side tumbling down over her shoulders, Emma stared at her reflection.

“Is something wrong, your Highness?” Celeste inquired, seeing Emma’s shocked expression reflected in the vanity mirror. “Were you wishing for a different coiffure for the evening? Perhaps braided in the back and swept over the shoulder, ending in a cascade of curls?”

Running steady fingers over the smoothness of the pinned portion of her hair, Emma thought of Killian in the next room, making his own preparations for the ball. She hadn’t allowed anyone to pin her hair up since the day of her wedding. Even then, it had been a grudging concession to please her mother. Afterward, Emma had insisted her maids leave it down— _if_ she let them touch her hair at all. Perhaps tonight, she might try… Just to feel normal… She could always take it down again if she grew too anxious with it up.

“It’s fine,” she said when she found her voice again. “Just having second thoughts. But I think the dress is better suited with my hair up, don’t you think?”

“Certainly, Your Highness,” the maid beamed, resuming her work. “It will look simply lovely once I put your tiara in it. Oh, won’t Prince Killian’s heart stop when he sees you!”

“Let’s hope not,” Emma joked, deflecting from the mounting anxiety of her decision, “or I won’t have a dance partner at my own wedding ball.”

They laughed together, chatting easier now that the tension was broken, but Emma didn’t quite manage to quell the twinge of anxious anticipation and dread at the thought of dancing with Killian Jones at a ball again. This time, they would be equals by maturity and rank. They would be spouses. And she would not be forced by propriety or circumstance to leave his side afterward.

And that knowledge terrified her in light of the sexual feelings Killian had been stirring in her for weeks.

A soft knock sounded on the door to her private chamber just over an hour later, and Emma rose from her dressing table, where she’d been adding last minute touches to her toilette. She hadn’t worn jewelry for months, save for her wedding band, and she’d spent a good twenty minutes trying on different articles of jewelry after Celeste took her leave. It hadn’t taken her but a few minutes to settle on the pearl earrings Killian had given her for a wedding present. They felt appropriate to the occasion, and Emma knew it would probably please Killian to see them in use. After that, she tried the jewelry on to pass the time and smother her nerves while she waited for Killian, feeling a little bit like a small child playing dress up.

Opening the door, Emma smiled nervously at her husband. “Hi.”

Lifting his head as the door had opened, Killian’s facial expression quickly shifted from one of good humor to that of mild shock. Emma flushed a little under his gaze, which seemed to hover between appreciative and embarrassed. It was the sort of reaction she’d longed in her youth to elicit from the stiff-seeming Lieutenant, and she felt a flare of victory at it, belated though it might’ve come.

“Your hair is up,” he said in an odd tone, tugging absently at the collar of his shirt, “and you’re wearing the earrings.”

“Of course I’m wearing the earrings,” she said, placing a self-conscious hand at the nape of her neck as she recalled again that damned dream about Killian unpinning her hair. Feeling a flush of heat throughout her body, Emma quickly realized her error. In pinning her hair up tonight, she’d made her body more vulnerable than ever to sexual suggestion in the form of Killian Jones. “And I’d hear no end of it from Mother if I turned up at my own ball with my hair in a tangle.”

“You look lovely,” he said with simple sincerity.

Emma fought the instinct to flinch at his compliment. Thanks to Jiminy, it was getting a little easier to dispel the toxic, negative thoughts that haunted her mind. It wasn’t easy, retraining herself to consider alternative interpretations to others’ words and actions, rather than interpreting everything in the worst possible light. Some days, some moments, were much more difficult than others. But gradually, Emma was noticing an improvement in dealing with the effects of her own trauma.

“Thank you.” Her own eyes were trying not to drink in the sight of Killian in his formal naval uniform. She should have been used to the sight of him in formal wear after so many years, but it seemed that spending too many of those years fantasizing about taking him _out_ of his uniform had created unbreakable associations that spelled trouble for her hormones this evening. “So do you. Look handsome, I mean.”

“Yes, I suppose I’m even more devilishly handsome and charming than usual,” he acceded with smirk, offering the crook of his arm in silent invitation.

“You could just say ‘thank you,’” she said with a roll of her eyes as she accepted his arm and walked with him to the entrance to their set of suites.

“I thought it better to press my advantage when I had it,” he teased, releasing her for a moment to open the door for her.

She swept by him, shaking her head in equal measures of exasperation and amusement. Truth be told, she was relieved at Killian’s wisecracks. It was a lot harder to notice the effect he had on her when she was distracted with the thought of throttling him.

They strolled through the palace at a leisurely pace, talking little. Killian insisted on stopping to rest a couple of times, despite Emma’s protests, not wanting to wear her out and put her into preterm labor again. Emma thought it entirely unnecessary considering it had been shock that had put her into early labor last time, not overexertion, but she acquiesced with only a few grumbles. She’d noticed herself getting tired more easily as she approached her sixth month, and she appreciated the chance to rest given the long evening that awaited them. It simply wouldn’t do to fall asleep when she was supposed to be entertaining guests, and Emma hoped that the combination of a hearty meal and frequent little rests would enable her to pull her own weight in that department, rather than putting much of it on Killian’s shoulders.

By the time they arrived in the vicinity of the dining hall, the thought of sitting for an extended period of time was a welcome one. Descending carefully down the short flight of stairs with Killian, Emma was greeted by the sight of many familiar faces--her Uncle James, a darker mirror to her father; Liam; Aunt Ruby and Victor; Belle…the Westensees. Emma found it difficult to comprehend all the friends and relations who had turned up for this ball. Even Merida, who had served as one of her bridesmaids and attended the first, public reception, had managed the long journey again.

“Emma!” a familiar voice whooped as they reached the bottom of the stairs and stepped onto the tiled floor.

Inclining her head toward the sound of that too familiar voice, Emma grinned in anticipation as the crowd parted and Alice bounded toward her, enveloping her in an enormous, if somewhat awkward hug.

“Oh, I didn’t hurt the baby, did I?” Alice asked with concern, gazing down at Emma’s rounded belly. “Oh, it just seems surreal, you expecting a baby!” She squeezed her arm around Emma’s shoulders again.

“Killian, you remember Alice Liddell,” Emma said wryly. “From our wedding?”

“Certainly,” he smiled, inclining his head toward her in greeting. “You were Emma’s Maid of Honor. Good to see you again, Alice.”

“Hello, Killian,” Alice said with a wide smile that was positively cat-like, almost predatory. If it had been anyone else in the world but Alice, Emma might have thought her to be flirting with Killian. As it was, Emma could practically see the gears turning in her best friend’s head as she glanced from Killian to Emma, and then back again. Her smile stretched a little wider. “I hope you are doing well.”

“Very well, thank you.”                                                                                      

“What about you, Emma?” Alice wanted to know. “Your letters mentioned feeling rather ill.”

“The morning sickness disappeared some time ago,” she assured her friend. “Thankfully. I’ve been told some women have it the whole pregnancy.”

“Oh, I hope that doesn’t happen to me,” Alice shuddered.

Emma raised an eyebrow. “Is there something you want to tell me?” she teased.

“Oh, Emma, don’t be silly! It’s not like that between Cyrus and me. Say, can you believe how many people are here?” she said brightly, changing the subject. “I think I even saw Elsa somewhere, frosting all the water carafes to keep them cold...”

Emma refrained from comment. She didn’t buy Alice’s insistent denials, no matter how she repeated them. There was definitely feeling beyond friendship between her and Cyrus--on Alice’s side, at least.

“Good evening,” Liam’s familiar voice interposed smoothly, with a formal bow in acknowledgement of Emma and Killian’s ranks. “It’s nice to see you both looking so well tonight,” he smiled.

“And you as well,” Emma said sincerely. “Liam, you remember my friend, Alice, don’t you?”

“Of course,” he said, offering a polite incline of his head. “Although I’m afraid we didn’t have much of chance to get acquainted. Hello again, Alice.”

“Hello, Liam,” she grinned. “I’m glad to see you’re feeling better.”

“Quite,” he smiled back. “Perhaps you might do me the honor of allowing me to escort you to dinner?” he invited, extending his arm toward her. “In the interest of getting better acquainted?”

“I’d be delighted,” Alice accepted.

“I suppose we’d better go in, ourselves,” Emma said, watching them leave.

“Of course,” Killian responded, gazing at her sideways, “if you’re ready.”

“As ready as I’ll ever be, I suppose. Let’s not keep our guests waiting.”

Emma entered the dining room, leaning a little on Killian’s arm. She felt self-conscious under the regard of these friends and family members. She didn’t know which was the worse—the ones who knew the truth about how she’d come to be in her present condition, or the ones who didn’t, but assumed much about the nature of Killian’s and her quick marriage. The enormous dining hall suddenly felt claustrophobic, Emma realized as beads of sweat broke out on the nape of her neck. Killian, realizing what was afoot as her muscles tensed, then began to tremble, responded with silent reassurance. He reached across with his other arm to steady her trembling hand under his own, neatly concealing this display of anxiety from her audience.

Emma turned her head slightly, trying to signal her gratitude with her gaze, and found Killian watching her with an expression as intense as her own. Warmth and a new kind of anxiety made her heart stutter in response, and she looked away quickly as she and Killian took their places of honor at the dining table, to the queen’s right. Floundering for a distraction, Emma turned her attention to her guests, smiling and greeting them each in turn, as the informal nature of the dinner allowed.

Listening with half an ear as her mother gave a brief but heartfelt speech about her hopes for a long and happy union between Emma and Killian, calmer, more sensible thoughts began to prevail. She must have been mistaken at the regard she’d seen in his eyes, that was all. She was ascribing more to Killian’s feelings for her than were actually there; he’d simply been concerned for her, as he always was. Her sexual frustration and general restlessness were driving her to paranoia and delusion.

Putting the matter from her mind as they followed Snow’s suit and seated themselves around the large dining table for dinner, Emma took note of those seated in closest proximity to her. The Westensees were seated across from Killian and her, she was pleased to note, Ariel flanking Snow’s left side while Emma flanked her right. She’d grown well accustomed to dining with the Westensees during her honeymoon with Killian, and their easy, familiar presence relaxed her, as did the presence of her longtime friend, Elsa, seated on Killian’s other side.

Liam sat a little further down the table, near the center, between Merida and Belle, and looked to be quite at home charming them both. _Just like a Jones_ , she thought with annoyed amusement. She’d witnessed Killian charming scores of women over the years before they’d married, and had simmered with irrational jealousy over it. Now that she was married to Killian, however, the thought of him flirting with another woman stirred nothing in Emma, and she couldn’t fathom why. It wasn’t that she wanted an open marriage, though she could certainly see why some in arranged marriages might turn to it, lacking affection or adequate fulfillment of physical need from one’s spouse.

Her eyes moved to Alice, who sat catty corner to Liam; she was chatting animatedly to Grumpy, who had already drained his wine glass and kept looking around the room as if hoping to spot an escape route. Emma dearly hoped her friend knew what she was doing with this Cyrus she adventured with so often. Alice wore her emotions on her sleeve; she always had. And the thought that this Cyrus could use it to his advantage if he were so inclined--manipulate Alice as Neal had Emma--sickened her.   

“It’s good to see you again, Emma,” Ariel smiled from across the table, distracting her from that particular train of thought. Next to Emma, Killian conversed quietly with Elsa and Eric. The Arendelles, like the Westensees, had been unable to attend Emma’s wedding, due to observance of the proper mourning period for their Aunt Ingrid, who had served as regent of Arendelle before Elsa was coronated. Elsa had never been well acquainted with Killian or the Westensees, and seemed to be making an effort, despite her natural reticence, to befriend them both.

“Thank you,” Emma replied as the first course was set in front of her--two dates, stuffed with slivered almonds and wrapped in bacon. She was momentarily puzzled at the dish, given that her mother usually preferred to serve oysters instead, and then noticed Ariel taking a small, delicate bite from one of the hors d’oeuvres. Of course, she realized with chagrin. Mother didn’t want to offend Ariel.

Making a mental note not to expect a fish course during dinner, either, Emma said, “It’s good to see you, too. I’m glad you were able to attend, after the reception was pushed back.”

Truth be told, she was more than a little surprised at the number of people in attendance after they’d been forced to postpone it. She’d expected most people to send their regrets, leaving a handful of people to attend, mostly from the palace or within easy traveling distance. That so many of her friends and family had made such an effort to be here, at this second, more private reception, touched her, and she vowed to pull her mother aside later and thank her for her thoughtfulness in planning the event. “How’s Melly?” she asked.

“Rather put out that she wasn’t allowed to attend Uncle Killian’s grown up ball tonight,” Ariel laughed, “but no doubt she’ll have forgotten about it in the morning by breakfast when she sees him again.”

“And…you’re doing well?” she asked haltingly, trying to be oblique in the presence of so many people. Emma was reasonably certain of the answer, given the Westensees attendance. She felt certain they wouldn’t have accepted the invitation while mourning, even privately, the loss of another baby.

“We are,” Ariel answered with significant smile. Her eyes glowed with excitement and joy. Emma couldn’t have been happier for her.

“How’s Melly taking it?” she asked, casting her gaze down at her food, grateful for the distraction it provided while she blinked back tears. She seemed to have as little control over her own emotions as she did her hormones these days.

“Are you all right?” Killian murmured, leaning toward her after Ariel admitted they were waiting to tell Melly until after their visit was concluded.

A familiar laughed echoed from the far end of the dining table where her father appeared to be entertaining Ruby and Happy with a humorous story. They roared with laughter. Victor, Doc, and Granny merely shook their heads in amused exasperation.

“Should I send for some tea?”

Killian’s voice drew her thoughts back to the present. “I’m fine,” she assured him. “Just happy.”

He blinked once, slowly. Emma felt like laughing. At least someone else felt as confused by her unpredictable moods as she did. Somehow, that made it easier. Flashing him a smile of reassurance, she returned her attention to the remaining hors d’oeuvres, her heart feeling lighter at Ariel’s good news.

By the time the fourth course finished and the dishes were removed from the table, Emma felt more like her old self, and found herself being more sociable with the wider array of guests dining with her. Killian, conversely, had gradually been saying less, letting his contributions to the conversation wane, while watching Emma from the corner of his eye now and then. It wasn’t enough that anyone else noticed, Emma felt certain, but she found herself looking back at him in bewilderment, wondering at his motivation. Mid-way through the fifth course, she decided to confront him.

“What’s bothering you?” she finally asked in a low tone as she sliced a piece of the minted lamb on her plate.

“What do you mean?” he asked, pausing as he lifted a water glass to his lips.

“You’re too quiet.”

Killian flushed under her scrutinizing gaze. He lifted his hand, as if to rub his neck, and then lowered it again, remembering where they were. “I’ve had a bit too much wine,” he admitted after a minute. “It makes me talkative.”

“And that’s a bad thing?” she teased lightly, hearing Liam’s throaty, rumbling laugh from farther down the table.

“Talkative in a way that’s not necessarily fit for the dinner table,” he explained, returning to his own meal.

“Surely it can’t be as bad as all that,” she protested. “Grumpy’s had too much to drink at more of these events than we can count, and he says all sorts of things. No one thinks the worse of him for it.”

“I’m a sailor, remember? Trust me, love, you don’t want to get one of us too liquored up at an event like this. We’d put the dwarf to shame.”

Emma tried to picture Killian drunk, or even tipsy, and failed. It didn’t fit in at all with the stiff, honorable naval Lieutenant she’d known for so long prior to their marriage. When she said as much, he laughed shortly.

“Even the best behaved sailors need to let off some steam once in a while when they reach port,” he pointed out, “trapped as we are on a ship for months at a time with nothing but each other for company.”

It took Emma a moment to catch his drift. “Oh,” she said awkwardly. “Yes, I suppose…one might…under the circumstances…” Killian’s posture had become tense, even defensive, and his gaze was guarded as he studied her in return, as if uncertain how she’d receive the information. Emma didn’t altogether understand why. It wasn’t as if she’d ever had any claim on him. He’d been perfectly free to do whatever he wanted.

Only now, she realized as the empty dishes were removed from the table once again, he wasn’t. He was married to her. And they had no physical relationship to speak of. Yet here they were, celebrating their union as if it were normal, rather than the farce it really was. Emma felt sick to her stomach.

“I didn’t mean to upset you, darling,” he soothed in a low tone, his voice warm and rich, almost a slow purr. “I’ve said too much, I’m sorry. I wasn’t exaggerating about the effect of wine on my tongue.”

The combination of his words sent a visual of Killian using that tongue to good advantage flashing through her mind, and Emma felt her body flush with heat as an intense, yet delicious tension built between her thighs. Killian Jones, she decided with annoyed embarrassment, was hell on her pregnant, hormonal body.

“Emma?” her mother’s voice cut through the fog of lust, “Are you feeling all right? You look flushed. And you’ve hardly touched your lamb.”

“It’s rather warm in here,” she confessed, settling for something that wasn’t a total lie. Her mother had the uncanny ability to know when Emma was lying. And she’d already noticed Emma wasn’t acting like herself.

“Should I escort you to a sitting room?” Killian wondered. “It may be cooler in there, without all the people.”

“I can make it cooler in here,” Elsa volunteered shyly, overhearing their conversation. “There’s no need to leave. That is, unless you’d rather lie down as well?”

“And miss the dessert course?” Emma joked with a lift of her eyebrows, causing everyone nearby to chuckle. “Go ahead, Elsa.”

A wintry breeze swept through the room, frosting the chandelier and crystal stemware. The temperature of the room dropped several degrees, and Emma could have hugged her friend then and there, for both the distraction she provided and for making the room more comfortable. Even Ariel looked visibly relieved at the difference. But it seemed Elsa was not yet finished. Glittering clouds of frost teemed at either end of the room, swirling and stretching until they formed delicate, interwoven tendrils of ice. A murmur of delight swept through the room as the large, abstract ice sculptures shone brightly, refracting the light from the chandelier and creating tiny rainbows of color all over the walls.

“Elsa, those are simply gorgeous!” Snow exclaimed, studying the sculptures with a fascinated smile on her lips. Everyone murmured in agreement. Everyone, that is, save for Grumpy who glowered with his usual surly expression and wondered when they’d bring another refill of wine, and--strangely enough-- Liam, who kept casting pensive looks at Elsa.

“It was my pleasure,” Elsa replied demurely.  She peered over at Emma. “Consider it a belated addition to the wedding gift I sent,” she smiled. “I do hope you and Killian will be very happy together.”

“Thank you,” Emma said sincerely. She was beginning to hope the very same thing, herself.

* * *

Feeling sated and sluggish after dinner concluded, Emma visited the powder room with Snow and Ariel to freshen up while the others went ahead to the ballroom. The baby had become very active toward the end of dinner, perhaps stimulated by the chocolate painted éclairs that had been served for dessert, and Emma was thankful to have something else to focus on besides the increasing betrayal of her body at the most inopportune times. Would it be so frequent, so intense, if she had never cared for Killian as a young girl? she wondered. How much of this desire was genuine physical need brought on by hormones, and how much of it was simply lingering, unresolved lust for an admittedly handsome man? Where did one begin and the other end? Emma wasn’t certain she wanted to know the answer.

She settled on a vanity chair, rummaging frantically through her clutch for the small hairbrush she’d stowed inside, just in case she wanted to take her hair down.

“So,” Ariel said quietly, appearing behind Emma as she reached for her hair to remove one of the pins, “what’s going on between you and Killian?”

A curl fell down on her neck as Emma removed the pin with a jerk, staring at Ariel in the mirror. Her blue eyes were sparkling, and a knowing smile hovered on her lips.

“What do you mean?” she asked dully, glancing over her shoulder toward her mother, who was busy overseeing her own toilette at a different vanity.

“Something’s changed between the two of you since the last time I saw you.” Ariel darted a furtive glance of her own toward Snow. “Are you two…?”

“No,” she answered harshly, reaching up to pluck another pin out of her hair with shaking fingers.

Ariel frowned, staring at the unpinned curls. “Well, something’s different,” she insisted.

“Yes,” Emma admitted after several moments. Too much was different. And not enough. She was too scared to go forward, she realized, staring at her reflection in the mirror, and absolutely terrified to go backward.

“It seems to be for the better,” Ariel observed. She studied Emma in the mirror for a long moment, then turned toward her, holding out her hand. “Do you want to take your hair down, or do you want me to put the rest of it back up?”

Emma stared at her reflection, her heart thudding with anticipation and dread. She couldn’t continue like this forever, burning with a need that was almost painful in its thirst to be slaked. But the thought of making herself vulnerable to Killian, of granting him access to her body, wasn’t something she was yet prepared for. But neither did she wish to destroy the progress she had made emotionally, by shutting him out again just when it seemed they might have a comfortable future with each other. Emma couldn’t bear the thought of decades devoid of his emotional companionship, even if she was conflicted about whether she wanted a physical component to their relationship.

“Put it back up,” she whispered, handing Ariel the hair pins.

* * *

Killian was waiting for her in the corridor outside the powder room when she finished her toilette. “Emma, a moment please,” he said quietly, catching her elbow while Snow and Ariel moved past them to the ballroom.

Halting to a stop, she peered at him with concern. Killian’s expression was troubled, uncertain. It was so unlike the confidence he usually exuded, and it ignited a tendril of fear inside of her. “Is it Neal?” she managed roughly.

His head jerked up, blue eyes flashing with surprise and guilt. “No, darling, nothing to do with Neal,” he assured her. “I wanted to talk with you about what I said during dinner. I’m afraid I said too much. I didn’t mean it as a threat to put pressure on you. I wasn’t… Emma, you do know I wouldn’t simply find someone else, don’t you?”

She stared at him, fascinated that they could have come away from that bit of conversation with such vastly different reactions. Him, thinking his words had caused Emma to despise and distrust him all over again, and Emma, trying to fend off hormonal fantasies of the man she’d desired for years.

“Killian,” she croaked, “I never thought anything of the sort. I didn’t take it that way at all.”

Hope flashed in his eyes, flecked with doubt. “But the way you reacted,” he murmured. “Emma, I’m not blind. You looked like a frightened rabbit ready to bolt for the nearest hole until Elsa distracted everyone.”

“Thanks,” she said wryly.

“Perhaps I could have picked a more flattering metaphor,” he reflected with an apologetic smile.

“Killian, I wasn’t having a panic attack, I promise. My mind was on other things. I was hot and uncomfortable.” _Entirely too true_ , a voice whispered in the back of her mind. Hot for him. Uncomfortable with a desire that begged to be quenched—

“It honestly never entered my mind that you’d turn to anyone else if we don’t…” She trailed off, struck by the uncomfortable thought that the reason it hadn’t occurred to her had as much to do with her increasing desire as it did with her trust for him.

 “And I never will, Emma.”

The depth of sincerity in his eyes was soothing, and it seemed to comfort the anxious swirl of thoughts regarding a physical relationship with him. She had time. _She_ could decide. Just as he’d always promised her.

“I know,” she murmured. “Thank you.”

“Wait,” he said, catching her elbow again as she moved toward the ballroom. “I have something for you.”

“What?” she blinked.

He reached inside his formal naval jacket and removed a long, thin box. Emma felt an irrational flare of disappointment at the sight. Some part of her had been holding out the hope that perhaps he hadn’t gifted the beautiful tea set to the Westensees.

Utterly foolish, she admonished herself. He couldn’t possibly have fit something like that inside the jacket of his uniform. And yet, the expectation, the hope, had unmistakably been present.

“Killian, you didn’t have to get me anything…” She hadn’t gotten anything for him, she thought guiltily. She’d been too consumed with the internal changes and conflicts raging inside of her to even think of it.

“Open it,” he urged, ignoring her protests as he handed it to her.

Swallowing with difficulty around the lump that had formed in her throat, Emma opened the box. A double strand of pearls rested on a gleaming velvet cushion of navy hue.

“To go with your earrings,” he explained. “I thought about giving them to you before dinner, but the moment didn’t seem right…” He trailed off, watching her uncertainly as a tear trickled down her left cheek. “Emma? Are you upset or…happy?”

She laughed, too overcome with her own changing emotions to help herself. “Happy,” she reassured him. “It’s just that I don’t have anything to give to you.”

“You don’t need to give me anything,” he shook his head. “I bought them because I thought you might like them.”

“I love them,” she said simply. “Thank you.”

Moving over to a nearby bench, Emma settled onto it and set the box down. She removed the pearls with great care and looked up at Killian, who had followed her. “Help me put them on?”

Killian sat on the bench next to her without a word and removed his gloves. Half a breath later, his fingers brushed against her as he took the pearls. Emma turned her body to the side, so he could reach around her, waiting with a nervous flutter in the pit of her stomach for the inevitable. His body pressed against her back, warm and hard, as he reached around her, laying the pearls against the exposed expanse of flesh above the neckline of her dress. Her heart quickened its pace. His bare fingers brushed against the naked flesh of her neck, sending a charge of electricity down her spine. Desire swept through her again; that she’d been anticipating it this time hadn’t made it weaker, but only seemed to enflame it.

The clasp fastened, his touch withdrew again, and Emma peered over her shoulder at him. He was close. Too close. But neither of them made an effort to increase the distance between them again, trapped by some madness of pheromones and future possibility. That it would only take a slight shift from either one of them for their noses to bump, their lips to meet—

A peal of laughter from the ballroom broke the spell, bringing them back to their senses. _Elsa_ , Emma realized vaguely. When was the last time she had ever laughed like that hard at anything?

“We should…” Killian murmured, pulling away to tug his gloves on as Emma ducked her head in…embarrassment? Disappointment? She didn’t know anymore.

“Yeah, we should.”

Killian tucked the empty box back in his formal jacket and stood up, offering her his hand. She accepted it, allowing him to help her to her feet. It required a lot more effort to propel herself out of a sitting position these days, and Emma was grateful that Killian was so often nearby to offer his aid. She couldn’t imagine what it would be like in about three months when the baby was almost here and her movements were even more ungainly and awkward than they were now.

Walking into the ballroom arm in arm, Emma paused just over the threshold with Killian. The majority of their guests were sailing across the ballroom floor, partnered up in dance, while a small knot of people gathered to one side, watching, or engaging in friendly conversation. When a herald announced their presence, everything stilled and the music quieted. All eyes turned toward them. “That’s our cue,” she murmured.

“Pardon?” he blinked.

“To dance,” she reminded him. “It’s our wedding ball. We have to have at least one dance together.”

“Are you certain you’re up for it? You’ve been on your feet enough already.”

“Killian, my back hurts and my feet are swollen so bad they already ache in these shoes. But we didn’t dance at our public reception ball. I was too sick. Or that’s the fiction we let everyone believe, given the unacknowledged status of my pregnancy. Which means the last time I danced with anyone at a ball--”

“Was with Neal,” he finished with a perturbed expression.

“Yes. Was with Neal,” she said wearily. “I’m tired of having him be my last memory of dancing and balls. Dance with me,” she pleaded, “like we used to. I want to forget.”

“As you wish,” he said softly. Taking her by the hand, Killian led her to the center of the ballroom while the orchestra hurried to switch music. When they reached it and turned to face each other, however, Killian seemed to hesitate. “I don’t remember this many people staring at us the last time we danced together,” he pointed out nervously.

“You’ll be fine. Forget everyone else. Just remember to bow,” she instructed, executing a slow, gentle demi-plié, rather than a curtsy, to maintain better balance with her pregnant body, while Killian bowed low. Taking her gloved hand with his own, Killian pressed his lips against it as protocol demanded, and they rose again together as one unit.

Sensing his hesitation again he slid one arm around her pregnant waist, Emma moved closer, forcing him to hold her more firmly. “I’m not made of glass just because I’m pregnant, Killian,” she smiled.

“No, offense, love, but you’ve given me a black eye for far less contact,” he teased, as the orchestra cued up and began to play.

“You’re never going to let me live that down, are you?” she bantered back, as they began to glide in rhythm across the dance floor.

“I might,” he said with affected thoughtfulness. “By the time we’re old and grey, I’ll probably have much more interesting things to hold over your head.”

Her breath hitched, and she fumbled the next step, flustered at the notion that this _was_ the man she would likely grow old with. What her younger self would have given for this moment, this opportunity with him! This was no overactive imagining of her adolescent imagination; this was reality. Killian _was_ hers. And he wasn’t going anywhere.

Killian’s grip tightened around her as he corrected his steps to counterbalance hers, and Emma suddenly became very aware of the cologne he was wearing. Shivering, she inhaled the spicy, earthy musk of it. It wasn’t his usual scent, but it was appealing nonetheless. Her body, responding by instinct and memory, allowed itself to relax into his grasp a bit more as her eyes fluttered and threatened to close. She felt safe here, in the familiar shelter of his arms. It was as if past and present, memory and reality, were mingling together, threatening to merge into one--

“Are you cold?” he asked, his breath warm upon her ear, shocking her back to full awareness. “Emma, you’re trembling! I think you’d better sit down.”

“I’m fine,” she gasped, returning to her senses. “I just…I forgot for a few moments…” She pulled back a little and found Killian watching her with concern. “I’m better. I’m fine,” she reassured him. “Let’s finish our dance.” He frowned at her, unconvinced at the wisdom of doing so, and she added, “Please.”

“As you say,” he acquiesced to her wishes.

Neither of them said another spoken word for the rest of the dance. They gave themselves over to a language far older and more intricate, their bodies moving in that ancient rhythmic ritual of barely restrained passion and delight, until they had utterly forgotten everything but the unified movement of their two halves. It wasn’t until long after the music had stopped and the loud, prolonged applause from their audience startled them back to themselves that Emma and Killian both became aware of how firmly and intimately the held one another. Both of them feared to withdraw, both of them feared to stay. And both of them knew a monumental, irreversible shift had taken place between them.

Other couples soon drifted back onto the dance floor, offering compliments and renewed congratulations on everything from their wedding to the baby, which Emma and Killian fielded with as much grace as they could muster, until finally Emma’s throbbing feet decided they could take no more. Wrapping an arm around her shoulder to better support her, Killian helped take some of the weight off of her aching feet as he helped Emma find an out of the way place to rest. “I’ll bring you some water,” he said, after settling her into a comfortable chair and helping prop her feet up on a little stool that her mother had provided.

She watched him go, exhausted and confused, half-wishing the ball were over already. A full moon couldn’t wreak half the mischief her hormones were managing tonight, she decided wryly, turning an idle eye to the sea of dancing people. Her eyes sought her parents out of habit, her mouth quirking up in a faint smile as she spied them dancing together, their faces as radiant with their love for each other as ever. A flash of familiar red hair caught her eye, and Emma shifted her gaze, watching Eric carefully twirl and glide with Ariel in time to the music, as if he held his entire world between his two hands. Their glowing affection for each other couldn’t have been missed in the dreariest storm; it reminded her so very much of her parents, and yet it bore the stamp of something unmistakably unique to them. Was the similarity of devotion and affection she sensed in both couples the essence of True Love? 

The ring of Alice’s easy laughter interrupted her thoughts, and Emma flicked a glance in the direction of the sound. Her friend Alice was leaning against a marble column several feet away, hands tucked and folded behind her back, giggling up at Liam, who leaned against the column with one arm, towering over her. His expression was jovial, yet calculating. Emma sat up straighter, her eyes narrowing, as she studied both of them closer.

“Does he treat you well?” her father’s familiar voice asked suddenly, diverting Emma’s attention yet again.        

She looked up, startled to see her uncle standing next to her instead, holding a flute of champagne in one hand. “Uncle James,” she said weakly, “it’s good to see you again…”

“Does he treat you well?” her uncle repeated, as if he hadn’t heard her greeting at all.

“Who? Killian?”

“Well, I certainly don’t mean The Other One.” He emphasized the last three words with especial venom, as if they were a demonic title. “But that reminds me.” He bent low and near to her, and said quietly, “If you ever want help getting justice for what he did to you, send word. I have resources at my disposal that your parents find…distasteful. But I assure you they are quite effective. He would never trouble anyone again. Of that I swear to you.” He straightened to his full height again, taking a sip of the bubbly champagne. His expression was cool and unruffled, as if he had just proposed a turn in the gardens for some fresh air.

“Uh, I’ll keep that in mind,” she responded awkwardly.

It wasn’t that she hadn’t thought of it. In the beginning, Emma had imagined fifty or more ways that she would have liked to see Neal tortured or killed. But those thoughts had eaten her alive, renewing and fortifying her anguish until she could hardly eat or sleep. She’d started wasting away, body and soul, cherishing the thought of oblivion from her troubles. And then the morning sickness had struck, and Emma found that vomiting was far more preferable to the dry heaving from an empty stomach. Food and drink became a necessity again, if only to provide some small measure of relief from the painful, frequent dry heaving that left her with a sore throat and throbbing headache. And sleep? Unavoidable, after she’d exhausted herself retching several times a day.

After her engagement to Killian shortly thereafter, Emma simply hadn’t much time to spend fantasizing about Neal’s destruction as wedding preparations and decisions about her pregnancy had taken over.

She didn’t want to go down that path again. Thanks to Jiminy, she knew such obsessive thoughts weren’t good for her. Emma wanted to focus on the good that she was finding in her life again. Neal hadn’t been a part of that equation since the rape. Or ever, she was discovering. She didn’t want him tortured or horrifically killed anymore. Emma simply wanted him gone, wiped from existence as if he’d never been.

But no one, not even Uncle James, could offer her that.

Emma engaged in small talk with her uncle for several more minutes, his eyes scanning the small crowd of people as if he were looking for someone. Killian appeared about half of the way through their stilted conversation, presenting Emma with a glass filled with chilled water. James exchanged a few pleasantries with him, keeping one careful eye on the way Killian interacted with Emma, while continuing to watch the dance floor. “If you’ll excuse me?” he asked suddenly, returning his empty flute to a tray carried by one of the roving servants. “I think it’s time I mingled again.”

Watching him thread his way around other people, Emma saw her uncle approach Elsa, who had just finished dancing with her brother-in-law, Kristoff. He said something, flashing one of his rare smiles, and Elsa laughed heartily, flushing in response. “Is he _flirting_ with her?” Emma gaped, watching the spectacle in horror.

“It would appear so,” Killian blinked, sounding as disturbed as Emma felt.

“But…” She swallowed back the protest that her uncle was far too old for Elsa. Seven years of difference in age between her and Killian was nothing compared to the decades between Elsa and James, but it could be argued in some circles nonetheless that Killian was also too old for Emma. And certainly, a large disparity of age in marriage wasn’t uncommon, particularly among the arranged marriages used to cement alliances between kingdoms. “But she’s my age!” Emma finished, wrinkling her nose. “She’s my friend!”

Spying her mother making her way toward them, Emma motioned for her to make haste.

“What’s wrong? What do you need?” her mother asked with breathless solicitation. “Are you hungry again? I have some of the staff working in the kitchens still, and I can have them send something over here.”

“Forget the food. Are you seeing this?” Emma growled in a furious whisper to her mother, jerking her head in the direction of her uncle, who had persuaded Elsa to venture out onto the dance floor with him. He was holding her indecently close, Emma decided, forgetful of the fact that Killian had held her far more closely when she’d danced with him earlier. “He is literally old enough to be her father, and he’s over there flirting with her!”

“Stranger things have happened,” Snow said with a sigh. “She’s of suitable age, no matter what you or I think, _and_ she’s of equal rank. The merging of their kingdoms would be to both of their advantages, both in terms of defense and resources,” she pointed out practically. “Besides,” she added, trying to put a bright face on the possibility, “Elsa might be good for him. He hasn’t been the same since your aunt Jacqueline died.”

Emma knew the story. Uncle James had resisted any of his father’s inducements or pressure to marry, preferring shorter term arrangements with a bevy of mistresses, until he met Jaq. United in the common cause of trying to stop a giant from razing one of the villages, one thing led to another, and James had ultimately tied the knot with Jaq, unable to imagine his life without her.

It was a cruel irony that only two short years after they had married, Jaq had died during childbirth, leaving James colder and crueler, without an heir, and facing the reality of a lonely existence without her. An existence to which he’d consigned himself for the past fifteen years.

Sad story or no, Emma decided, watching James twirl Elsa around the dance floor, it was still gross that he was flirting with one of her best friends. Morbidly fascinated, she continued to watch them long after her mother left, leaving her alone in Killian’s company again. Snow had decided to have the kitchens send a small tray to her daughter anyway, just in case Emma changed her mind and became hungry, and Emma had been too distracted to offer even a weak protest. That Elsa seemed to genuinely be enjoying herself, rather than simply responding with distant politeness, was a puzzle to Emma.

James and Elsa swept past Liam and Alice, laughing quietly about something again, and Liam’s gaze followed them across the dance floor. His expression darkened, and he bent over to Alice, murmuring something in her ear. She nodded, her expression becoming sober, and made a shooing gesture at Liam. Flashing her a look of gratitude over his shoulder, he weaved his way through the other dancers and soon interrupted the dancing couple with a polite, but determined expression.

James surrendered his partner graciously enough, but Emma knew well enough from her experiences with her uncle, as well as from the resolute look on his face, that it wouldn’t be the last time James sought Elsa’s company.

“I haven’t seen Liam ask a woman to dance in years,” Killian commented softly as his brother began to dance with Elsa in James’s stead.

“Really?” she blinked. “Why not?”

“I don’t know,” he shrugged. “I always thought it was because of an old sailing injury that left him with a stiff leg, but he seems to be managing well enough now, doesn’t he? I think they may even put us to shame.”

“Only because I’m pregnant!” she protested.

He grinned at her. “Competitive as always, I see.”

She harrumphed at that, but didn’t argue. “Come on,” she said, holding out her hand so he could help her up, “a little friendly competition never hurt anyone.”

* * *

The next few days were blessedly restful for Emma and Killian; many of the usual appointments were cancelled or put on hold while they visited with their guests before they had to return to their own responsibilities. Snow and Emma entertained Alice and Ariel and Elsa with some of the other women, while Merida and many of the men went hunting. Spring was finally beginning to make its appearance in the Enchanted Forest, and Emma felt much happier now that she could soak up the sun’s rays while working in a small private garden. It wasn’t as good as riding, but it calmed her restlessness considerably just to be outdoors in the warm sunshine again.

Not all business could be put off in the name of visiting guests, however, and Emma found herself trapped in the occasional state meeting despite the relative freedom of her schedule otherwise. Bored and restless, Emma often found herself watching Killian instead. He had the aggravating habit, when he was thinking hard about something, she discovered, of biting his lower lip. It drove her mad, and she couldn’t help but imagine Killian nipping at other things of a more intimate nature. Her hormones were well and truly out of control now, and Emma couldn’t keep her attention on matters of policy to save her life. Not when she was so aroused that it was practically painful.

“Emma, what is the matter with you today?” her mother finally demanded after a meeting one afternoon. Killian and David had left with Liam and some of the other officers to further discuss a matter of tactics, effectively leaving Emma to be ambushed by her own mother. “You could hardly string a sentence together the entire meeting!”

She hesitated, embarrassed and annoyed that her mother had taken notice of her behavior. Emma thought about lying, but knew that any lie she offered would ring hollow to her mother’s ears. So with a frustrated sigh, she described the sensations and urges she had been dealing with for several weeks.

“Is that all?” her mother blinked after Emma finished explaining. “Honey, you’re _pregnant_. This is normal.”

“It is? I mean, it’s normal for it to be this strong?” she clarified.

“Of course. There are a lot more hormones being pumped through your body right now, and one of the side benefits after you get past the morning sickness is heightened desire. Why, I couldn’t get enough of your father when I was pregnant with you!”

“I am not hearing this,” Emma groaned, covering her ears. She really, really did not need that visual. Ever.

“The question,” Snow continued practically, “is what you’re going to do about it.”

“Do about it?” she echoed.

“Well, you _could_ walk around trying to ignore it for the next three months until you have the baby, driving everyone else crazy in the process, I’m sure, or you could take matters into your own hands.” She looked at Emma significantly. “That is, unless you think you’re comfortable with Killian…?”

“No,” she cut in sharply, unwilling to discuss the possibility with her mother, “I’m not.” But it wasn’t entirely true, and they both knew it. Her mother had never needed Aunt Ruby’s wolf nose to sniff out lies when it came to her daughter.

“I see,” her mother responded neutrally. “It may interest you to know, Emma, that nearly all of our guests will be gone riding this afternoon, or busy knitting with me and Belle. And you know how your father gets. Killian could be holed up with him for hours. So if you wanted to, ah, have some time to yourself this afternoon, it might be a good opportunity to finally unwind.”

Feeling her cheeks flame with humiliation, Emma muttered a vague, noncommittal response. Snow, mercifully, said no more about it, and switched the topic to the litter of wolf pups that one of Ruby’s non-shifting pack members had just delivered. Emma listened with half an ear as Snow described them, considering her mother’s advice. Her words made sense. Perhaps Emma _was_ effectively torturing herself, by refusing to give herself some relief. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t considered the notion before. And yet, somehow the thought never materialized beyond potentiality into a concrete action. Emma always managed to provide herself with a convenient distraction to the problem instead, rather than address it and seek resolution.

Returning to her apartments not quite an hour later, Emma dismissed her mother’s maid, who had acted as escort, and settled onto a settee in the drawing room. It was nerve-wracking, she realized, to now contemplate in a serious way an action she had performed on herself countless times in her youth. What if the guards posted outside her rooms overheard her? Killian might be gone for the afternoon, but what if one of the maids walked in to clean and found her masturbating? What if, in taking her mother’s advice, Emma didn’t find relief, but her burning desires only grew worse?

Pushing off the settee with a grunt of effort, Emma walked to her private chamber. It would be more difficult for anyone outside the suites to overhear, the farther away she moved from the entrance where they were posted. And the lock on the door would prevent any of the maids from bursting in on her unexpectedly. She had no more excuses not to do this.

Stripping out of her clothes with trembling fingers, Emma took deep, even breaths as she peeled away each layer. It was irrational to feel so nervous, she told herself again and again. It wasn’t anything she hadn’t done before. It was the normal, natural solution to her hormone-fueled arousal. 

Padding over to the bed with bare feet, Emma eased herself onto it. It felt foreign, full of imaginary lumps, and yet she couldn’t bring herself to use the bed she shared with Killian in their joint bedchamber for something like this. Lying down, Emma tried her best to get comfortable within the parameters allowed by her pregnant body. Finally settling into a somewhat restful position on her left side, Emma took another deep breath and slid her fingers off of her hip. Shifting her legs slightly so that she had better access in this position, her fingers hovered near the cleft in her loins for several minutes, hesitating.

 _You’re being ridiculous_ , she told herself, fighting with conscious effort to keep her breaths even. Sliding her fingers forward with determination, she entered into her own warmth with a shaky, anxious gasp. Her movements were jerky at first, even clumsy, and did little to arouse her as she sought to re-familiarize herself with her own body. It might as well have been her first time masturbating, she realized after several uneasy moments of skimming the sensitive nub between her thighs, for all the success she seemed to be having. Emma didn’t remember it ever taking this much effort to induce that heated, coiling feeling between her thighs before. The idea of reaching orgasm seemed like a far off joke, now, when before it had taken so little—only the thought of a half-dressed Killian Jones and a few deft movements of her fingers.

 _Killian_ , she thought idly. Now that he’d entered her thoughts, he was impossible to banish. Did she dare let her thoughts linger over him, as she used to? She didn’t have much choice in the matter, Emma discovered, as images from her adolescent fantasies coalesced with all the little turn-ons she’d noticed about him in the past several weeks. Her fingers rubbed faster, picking up pace, and with it the heat between her thighs swelled toward crescendo.

_Do you fuck yourself when you read his book? You do, don’t you?_

The intrusive thoughts slapped across her memory again as Emma reached peak, and her resulting cries had more to do with trauma than pleasure. Arousal had been replaced in an instant by guilt, disgust, and fear. Neal hadn’t broken her, she realized with a sob as her body crested down off its high, unaware of her mental and emotional anguish. He’d simply handicapped her ability to enjoy sexual release.

Great, heaving sobs wracked her body as she lay in the bed, alone and afraid. Emma had thought to free herself in part from Neal in allowing herself to finally feel sexual pleasure again, but now she found herself chained to his hated memories more than ever. Despair overtook her, and she continued to cry  with great, shuddering gasps, unmindful of the shuffling noises in the next room that would have told her Killian was home had she been able to focus properly.

Emma didn’t hear his concerned inquiries from the other side of the door, nor did she hear the growing fear in his voice when she didn’t answer any of pleas to open the door. She in fact heard nothing at all until two loud cracks permeated the memories haunting her just long enough for her to realize the door had been broken.

She didn’t move a muscle. _Hadn’t_ moved a muscle since her breakdown. Vaguely, she was aware of Killian approaching her with caution. She felt his eyes on her, surveying the situation, and knew that he was realizing what she’d been up to. And what, therefore, was causing her to sob so uncontrollably.

“Emma,” he said in a very soft whisper, kneeling near the bed so that he could remain level with her gaze. His eyes shone with a mixture of intense anger and great compassion. “Emma, you’ve done nothing wrong. Don’t cry anymore, darling,” he soothed, mindful not to touch her. “Don’t let Neal warp this for you, sweetheart.”

 _Too late for that_ , she thought dully, her sobs beginning to abate out of sheer exhaustion.

Killian stood up and moved away from the bed, returning a moment later with a thick blanket taken from the bed they shared together. He held out his hand without a word, and Emma allowed him to help her sit up on the edge of the bed. Wrapping the blanket around her with gentle care, he considered her for a moment before he spoke. “Would you like me to fetch your mother?” he offered. “Or Jiminy?” She shook her head, and he frowned. “Ariel?” he tried again. “I know she’s helped in the past.”

“No,” she told him harshly. “I don’t want my mother or Ariel to know about this.” Ariel would probably understand, if Emma managed to get past the humiliation of it long enough to tell her about it, but Snow? How could she burden her mother with the knowledge of how her attempt to find release had turned out, after she’d suggested it? Emma didn’t want to inflict that on her; Snow would only feel guilty, and she had nothing to feel guilty about. She’d only been looking out for Emma, trying to help. Some things were better left unknown.

“And Jiminy?” he asked softly.

“I don’t want to talk to him right now,” she sniffed. “I just…” She hesitated, reluctant to voice her desire for his touch. After what she’d just been through, Emma worried that it would dredge up desires that would only traumatize her further right now, associated as they were with what had happened. But Killian’s presence was soothing to her, and his touch more comforting still, she admitted to herself, recalling the way he’d held her at the Westensees while she’d sobbed and tried to understand why Neal had done something so horrific to her; why the universe had _let_ something so horrific happen to her.

“I just want you to hold me,” she finally whispered, pulling the blanket around herself more tightly.

Surprise flared in his eyes, and his lips thinned as he pressed them together, perhaps doubtful of the wisdom of her request. Yet he sat down on the bed next to her nonetheless, wrapping and arm around one shoulder. Drawing her close, he locked his other arm around her in an embrace, and Emma rested her head along the curve of his shoulder. Killian didn’t pry for information, but simply lent the strength of his presence in silence, and Emma soaked it up like a flower starved of sunshine.

And then a funny thing happened. The lack of pressure loosened her tongue, and Emma found herself telling him exactly what she’d been going through the past several weeks—minus his own role in the matter. She couldn’t have said why she did it; perhaps she simply wanted someone to listen who wouldn’t ask questions or offer advice. Or maybe she wanted someone to understand. Whatever it was, Emma knew now that Killian would not abuse the information and seek to turn it to his own advantage.

She was safe with him.

* * *

Within three weeks more, most of their guests had returned home, save for Alice. Emma was relieved. As much as she had enjoyed their company, the return to her normal routine gave her a much needed sense of normalcy that allowed her to work through the intense tangle of emotions she felt. She found it frightening, at first, putting into concrete words all of the emotions and sexual urges she’d been feeling; but Emma knew, deep down, that her sessions with Jiminy helped her to heal rather than remain mired in a state of perpetual fear and anger. And so, she talked, even when it required addressing the most uncomfortable of truths.

“Emma, I’ve been reviewing my notes from several of our last sessions,” Jiminy began one rainy afternoon, “and I noticed an interesting pattern that I’d like to explore with you. These sexual urges you’ve been feeling…Have there been other incidents than the ones you’ve described?”

“What do you mean? Of course I have. I’ve been having them so often, it’s been driving me half-crazy. I couldn’t possibly remember every single instance.”

“Yes, of course,” he chirped, “but what I’m asking is whether any of them were triggered by, say, reading a romantic story, or one of the other young men you danced with at the ball?”

“No,” she said warily, shifting on the settee uncomfortably.

“I see. And had it occurred to you, then, Emma, that in each of these instances where you were sexually aroused, it was solely by your husband?”

“That’s not—” Emma swallowed the rest of her protest. Hadn’t she just admitted that Killian had been at the center of all of her feelings of arousal? “Go on,” she finished sullenly.

“Consider also,” Jiminy continued, “that you were only able to become aroused and reach climax when thinking specifically of Killian, regardless of the trauma from Neal that intruded on that moment.”

“So?” she said suspiciously. “What are you getting at?”

“What I’m getting at is that, given this sexual attraction to Killian, as well as many of your recent interactions with him, and the way you’ve spoken of him since the ball… Are you reconsidering a physical relationship with your husband?”

“No,” she said again, after considering his logic for a long while. “Should I?”

“That’s not for me to decide,” Jiminy replied. “What I’m asking is how you feel when you think about a sexual relationship with Killian? Are your feelings about it different now than when we’ve previously discussed them?”

“Yes,” she admitted after struggling with her conscience a long while. Jiminy had asked her for the truth in one of their early sessions. He couldn’t help her, he’d said, if she wasn’t honest with him. Honest with herself. And she’d been running from the truth, more and more, as her sexual desire for Killian had increased. “Yes, it’s different.”

“Can you put into words what’s different?”

“I trust him,” she admitted. “I didn’t before—not fully. I thought he’d hurt me, take advantage of me, and use me. Like Neal.”

But Killian had proven himself innumerable times to her, in a myriad of ways, that he was nothing like Neal. That he valued her for just being Emma. She wasn’t an object to use and then abandon. And never, ever had that been clearer than when Killian had found her, lying naked and vulnerable after she’d tried to find sexual gratification apart from him.

Killian hadn’t been angry at her, or even hurt, the way she’d feared. And he certainly hadn’t tried to take advantage of her, of the knowledge of what she was going through, to pressure her into a sexual relationship. Killian’s only concern had been for _her_ , not anything he might have been able to gain from the situation.

Neal, on the other hand, had never been interested in what Emma most needed or wanted; he’d only been interested in what most benefitted _Neal_. And when he hadn’t been able to turn a situation to his advantage by persuasion or manipulation, he’d simply used force.

“Then perhaps, Emma,” Jiminy said, when she’d related all of this to him, “since you’ve indicated you may be ready, it’s time to approach Killian about adding a sexual component to your relationship.”

* * *

 

But Emma didn’t approach Killian. Not right away. She needed time to reflect, to get her head on straight. Was this what she really wanted? What if, when the pregnancy was over, and the hormonal surges died down, Emma wasn’t attracted to him in that way anymore? Could either of them be content to return to mere friendship after sleeping together? Somehow, she doubted it. Initiating a physical relationship with Killian Jones was one horse that would be difficult to put back in the barn if the attraction faded later.

Emma needed to talk to someone. A specific someone, who would understand her lingering doubts about sleeping with Killian.

Detouring to the wing where her old room had been, Emma located the guest room where Alice usually stayed, and knocked loudly. “Just a minute!” her friend’s familiar voice floated through the door. There was a scrape of wood and the sound of papers being shuffled. After another moment, footsteps sounded and the door eased open. Alice’s familiar face appeared in the opened doorway, looking puzzled for a brief moment before she spotted Emma.

“Emma! Come in!” she urged, moving away from the door. “What are you doing here?”

Emma dismissed her escort, rather than ask her to wait indefinitely, and moved into the chamber. Alice shut the door behind her. “I hope I wasn’t interrupting anything,” Emma said anxiously, as Alice helped her settle into a comfortable armchair near the window and covered her with a blanket.

“Of course not,” Alice assured her, pouring a glass of water. “Nothing that can’t wait, anyhow.” She set the decanter down on a corner of a small, hand-carved writing desk, and handed the glass to Emma, who sipped it gratefully. “What’s going on with you? You look frightened, Emma. Did something happen? Should I send for Killian?”

“No!” The word came out with more force than she’d intended.  “I mean, no thank you. I’m fine.”

“If you’re so fine, why are you here avoiding Killian?”

“I’m not avoiding him,” she argued instinctively.

Alice tilted her head with a skeptical expression. Emma averted her gaze, embarrassed. She couldn’t put anything past her childhood friend when it came to Killian. Alice simply knew too much to be fooled; she’d borne witness to Emma’s first glimpse of Killian at a ball when she was fourteen, and had offered increasingly encouraging support for the steady, quiet progression of Emma’s feelings for Lieutenant Jones through subsequent years. When she’d learned of Emma’s engagement to Killian in the aftermath of Neal, Alice had been quietly ecstatic, though she’d never put it into words. Emma was certain that her friend held out hope that Killian might grow to love Emma, and that they’d have a happy ending together.

“Not for long, anyway,” she amended, when Alice leveled another skeptical gaze at her.

Alice sat down on the bed, facing Emma, and crossed her legs together. “Well?” she asked, folding her arms around a pink, lacy pillow. “So what brought you on this little detour? Aren’t you supposed to be meeting Killian for tea this afternoon?”

Listening to the rain beat against the windowpanes as she gathered her thoughts, Emma shifted in the armchair. “That’s not for another hour,” she explained. “How’s Cyrus?” she asked, leveling her own frank stare at Alice.

Alice’s brow puckered at the sudden change of subject. “Fine,” she said, “at least I think. I haven’t really heard from him in a while. Why do you ask?”

“Because I can see from all your letters that you’re crazy about him,” Emma said. “Or you were,” she finished uncertainly. Given the increasing amount of time Alice seemed to spend in Liam’s company these days, perhaps those feelings had changed. Maybe Alice had moved on. As Emma had.

“I am very fond of Cyrus,” Alice admitted quietly, avoiding Emma’s gaze as she plucked at a ruffle on the pillow in her lap. “But Emma, you didn’t really come here to ask me about that, did you?”

“Yes,” she admitted. “Partly. I thought…if anyone would understand, it might be you.”

“Me?” Alice frowned. “Understand what?”

“Being afraid,” Emma whispered, twisting a piece of the blanket in her fingers. “Not knowing what the future holds.”

Alice peered at her. “But you’re already married to Killian,” she pointed out. “And you seem to be getting along rather well, considering the situation. Why would you be afraid? I thought you trusted Killian now.”

“I do,” she agreed, swallowing around the lump in her throat, “That’s why I’m afraid. I’m not worried about Killian hurting _me_. I’m worried—I’m worried about hurting him.” With a deep breath, Emma gave Alice the condensed version of what had been discussed earlier during her session with Jiminy.

“Emma, that’s fantastic!” she grinned. “Congratulations!”

“The hell it is!”

“What?” Alice’s smile faltered. “I don’t understand. Emma, you’ve been mad about Killian for years!”

“Which I got over at nineteen or so,” she reminded her friend forcefully. “When I met Neal.”

“Neal?” Alice wrinkled her nose. “You mean you were serious about him? I always assumed you started flirting with him and courting his favor in an attempt to make Killian jealous and finally notice you as a woman.”

“I—maybe I was, at first” she admitted guiltily. “But things changed. _Some_ of it was real--at least for me.”

“So you’re really over Killian?” Alice inquired with a curious frown.

“Haven’t you been listening? Of course I’m over him. I’m worried about hurting him, not me.”

“You think he’ll become attached to you, after sleeping together, then?”

“It’s a distinct possibility,” Emma pointed out. “He swore to me there would never be other women, that he wouldn’t hurt me like that. And I believe him. He’s too honorable to do such a thing.”

Her best friend’s eyes narrowed. “So you believe,” Alice said, becoming oddly angry, “that the only chance he’d ever fall in love with _you_ would be for, what, lack of better options?”

She winced. “You make it sound awful when you put it like that.”

“Because it’s simply horrible, that’s what, Emma! I simply don’t believe that you, of all people, would ever have such a low opinion of Killian Jones! What’s really going on here? I don’t believe for one bloody minute that this is about _Killian_ getting attached to you at all. This is about _you_ , isn’t it, Emma?”

“That’s not true,” she protested feebly.

“Of course it is,” Alice insisted. “You’re the one who might get attached, and it frightens you. And if it’s not,” she said with an arch look as Emma opened her mouth to argue again, “then what, pray tell,” she said with a final, ruthless thrust of her words, “is still holding you back from bedding that man the way you’ve wanted to for years?”

Emma felt a chill run down her spine. Her instincts had been right. Alice understood.  She’d understood too well--far better, even, than Emma had.

“I don’t know,” she said hoarsely.

* * *

It was the longest afternoon tea of Emma’s life. Her mother would have been mortified to see how much Emma fidgeted through it. Killian, for his own part, merely raised his eyebrows and teased her about wishing to skip straight to the chocolate pastries, and then took no more notice of it, perhaps assuming Emma was wrestling with yet another bout of hormonal lust. She could have laughed to tell him the truth right then and there, but blurting out over your cup of tea that you finally wanted to have sex was a breach of etiquette even Emma wasn’t willing to commit.

And so, she fidgeted, alternately shuffling her feet and stirring her tea far more than was duly warranted. Even the chocolate cake that Killian had wordlessly slipped onto her plate with a sparkle in his eyes remained mostly untouched. She’d tried to eat some of it at his urging, but it tasted like sawdust in her mouth, and Emma merely picked at it with her fork instead.

When the little mechanical clock in the drawing room next door finally chimed that afternoon tea was concluded, Emma felt a spike of anxiety. Following Killian into the room after he helped her rise from her chair, she settled onto a settee near the fireplace, smoothing her violet skirts while Killian knelt to light a fire. The rain had made it chilly again, even for early spring, and Emma was grateful for the extra warmth that a fire provided, pregnancy or no pregnancy.

She watched him stack wood in the fireplace, considering several possible ways of introducing the subject of sleeping together. Emma finally abandoned the effort together as Killian shed his jacket, folding it on a chair nearby, and loosened his cravat. Reaching for the tinderbox, Killian knelt before the fireplace again, his trousers becoming taut across the curve of his ass as he reached into the fireplace and lit a match.

“I want to have sex with you,” she blurted, overcome by a potent combination of nerves and sheer, pent-up, frustrated lust.

Killian froze.

 _Oh, hell, Emma,_ she thought with horror as Killian cursed suddenly, dropping the lighted match when it burned his fingers. _You may as well have blurted it out over the damn tea!_

Stamping out the smoking match on the tiled floor around the fireplace, Killian looked up at her with bewilderment in his eyes. “What did you say?” His expression was guarded, uncertain, as if he knew he must have misheard her.

“I want…” Emma took a deep breath and then released it slowly, calming her nerves somewhat. “I want to have a physical relationship. I think I’m ready.”

He turned toward the fireplace, shielding his expression from her as he lit another match. Emma remained silent, giving him time to process her announcement while he started a proper fire among the wood stacked in the grate of the fireplace. Flames sparked and then sputtered to life, and Killian stood up again, leaning against the mantel over the fireplace, his expression contemplative.

“What does Jiminy think about all of this?” he finally asked, chewing on his lower lip in the way that drove her crazy.

“He thinks I’m ready, too,” she answered, trying not to get too distracted. “What do you think?”

Killian smiled to himself with an expression that was almost self-deprecating. “I believe we both know my thoughts on the matter, Emma.”

“I know, but…” She pushed against the arm of the settee, trying to lever herself off the couch. Killian, taking note of her struggle, helped her to her feet. “What if you’d changed your mind?” she murmured, grasping his hand tighter as he made to pull it away.

“I haven’t,” he assured her. All of the humor had drained from his face; his expression was intent and serious, his blue eyes gleaming with sincerity.

“So you still want to?” she clarified nervously.

“I do.”

“Oh.”

An awkward, charged silence fell between them as they considered each other anew in light of this change in circumstances.

“So, um…how do we…?” Emma tried, breaking the silence. She felt herself turn red to the roots of her hair. “I mean, I know _how_ , it’s just that I’ve never…Not the way you’re supposed to, the way my mother and Ariel talk about. And I know you’re older, and you _have_.” She felt mortified at her own babbling.

“I have,” he agreed.

Emma felt a flare of insecurity and irrational fury that she was the only one coming to their marriage bed so inexperienced. _Don’t be absurd, Emma,_ she told herself. _You already knew all this. He had a life before you._ And anyway, hadn’t she planned to give herself to Neal eventually? It wasn’t as if she’d stayed sitting around and waiting to warm Killian Jones’s bed, either. Not after she’d decided to move on.

 “Emma,” he breathed in a low, soothing tone, taking a step toward her, “relax. We’ll start very slow, just becoming familiar with nearness. Touch. And I won’t do anything you don’t want me to. I would never do anything to purposely hurt you.” He watched her with a searching gaze. “You know that, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Good,” he said, “then there’s just one more thing. As much as I need to know that you trust me not to hurt you, I need to trust that you will tell me when something is too much. Given the circumstances, this won’t be an easy process for either of us, and I need to be able to tell the difference between a firm, un-crossable boundary and something that you feel comfortable exploring, even if it’s sensitive or difficult for you.”

“Oh.”

“Can you do that, Emma?”

She thought about it for several moments, weighing whether she was genuinely capable of this, of being able to enforce boundaries for her own sake, rather than simply try to force herself through something just to desensitize herself to it. “Yes,” she finally said, lifting her gaze to meet his own. “I can.”

Killian exhaled slowly, as if he had been holding his breath while waiting for her answer. “Good,” he said, taking another small step closer to her.

Their hands were still clasped together.

“No kissing,” she blurted out suddenly. “I don’t want any, uh, kissing.”

He paused, considering her again. “Emma, love,” he said gently, “I can work within those parameters, if that’s what you wish, but I feel it fair to point out that you’re going to deprive yourself of a lot of the pleasure of the act if I can’t kiss you anywhere.”

“I know,” she said in embarrassment. “I’m not _that_ innocent of what it all entails. I just meant on the lips.” She knew it seemed like an odd place to draw a boundary, but kisses were too personal, too vulnerable. Too easy to form an attachment through them. She’d kissed Neal scores of time, and in the end he’d nearly destroyed her.

But Emma couldn’t form the words to voice these thoughts to Killian yet, so she simply said, “Everywhere else, we can…experiment with.”

“Aye,” he said, taking one more step closer to her. Her belly pressed against the hardness of his torso, and she felt his other hand curl around her waist. “Just say the word, Emma,” he murmured into her ear, “whenever you’re ready. We can begin any way you like.”

She blushed again, feeling a jolt of electricity run down her spine. “In that case--” she said haltingly, feeling shy and a little foolish, but determined to be as honest with Killian as she’d promised, “do you mind--washing my hair tonight?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I know there was a lot of jumping forward in time in this chapter, so I wanted to clarify that Emma is 7 months pregnant, as of the end of this chapter, in case anyone lost track.


End file.
